


The Edge of Sadness

by Viscariafields



Series: Puppy Love [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol, Alistair is very depressed, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Blood, Broken Bones, Canon levels of violence, Circle Mage Bethany Hawke, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Intensely Requited Love, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Only One Bed, Resolved Sexual Tension, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, deeply resolved sexual tension, implied canon levels of circle violence, mentioned suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields
Summary: Alistair had not chosen to be born. He had definitely not been chosen to be born a bastard, and furthermore if anyone had asked him, he never would have chosen to be born of royal blood. Likewise, he did not choose to leave Redcliffe and get sent to the monastery for templar training, and most damning, when a king was chosen during the turmoil in Ferelden, it was not Alistair who thrust the crown onto his own head and condemned himself to a lifetime of servitude in a job he was not suited for.So, five years later, when Eamon “suggested” an arranged marriage to ensure peace and hopefully heirs, Alistair did what Alistair did best. He acquiesced.
Relationships: Alistair/Bethany Hawke
Series: Puppy Love [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715638
Comments: 498
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

Alistair had not chosen to be born. He had definitely not been chosen to be born a bastard, and furthermore if anyone had asked him, he never would have chosen to be born of royal blood. Likewise, he did not choose to leave Redcliffe and get sent to the monastery for templar training, and most damning, when a king was chosen during the turmoil in Ferelden, it was not Alistair who thrust the crown onto his own head and condemned himself to a lifetime of servitude in a job he was not suited for.

So, five years later, when Eamon “suggested” an arranged marriage to ensure peace and hopefully heirs, Alistair did what Alistair did best. He acquiesced.

Eamon, for his part, did inquire if Alistair had any preferences in the woman that would be procured for him, but Alistair already felt so sorry for her he refused to reply. He would not be the one to choose this life for another, if another had to join him. His preferences would not be what tilted the scales in some poor woman’s favor.

It was less than a month later Eamon told him that of all people, the Champion of Kirkwall had agreed to wed him. He’d heard of her, of course. Everyone had heard how she’d singlehandedly defeated the Qunari horde just this summer. Nowhere in that story had Alistair sensed she might be desperately searching for a husband. Perhaps, after a few months of enjoying power and influence in Kirkwall, she simply wanted more of it.

Now _that_ was a disturbing thought.

Perhaps Alistair _should_ have made some sort of request. “Make sure she’s as ill-suited for the job as I am. Think about Anora, and then go with the complete opposite of that.”

Too late, now. The Champion had accepted, and Eamon was beside himself with satisfaction. It oozed from him in every interaction. He was practically doting on Alistair, and Alistair had heard him whistling in the halls. It echoed.

There was a certain logic to marrying the Champion that even Alistair could appreciate. She was noble, sort of, about as noble as Alistair was, anyway, which, as he knew too well, was enough. She was popular, even in Ferelden, where the Qunari had threatened no one. Alistair had ridden his own popularity for five years, so perhaps she would grant them five more. By that time, if he were unlucky, or lucky, depending on the day and how he looked at it, he might be hearing the Calling. Then all of this would be someone else’s problem.

Alistair’s reward for all this would be a dark, messy death in the bowels of the earth.

On more than one occasion, it had occurred to him there was nothing stopping him from claiming the Calling was upon him already, and simply meeting it early.

Those were the darkest days, and Alistair didn’t have too many of those. Recently. 

In any event, getting married first would absolve him of some of the turmoil his death would cause. His wife would hopefully be better suited to the whole thing, and perhaps she’d discreetly procure an heir. He tried to imagine her, a vague sort of silhouette of a person, sitting on the throne next to his, being useful. It could work.

Eamon _had_ described his betrothed in more detail, but Alistair had not been listening, choosing instead to look out the window at a bird flying circles as it searched for prey. Seemed a lonely and possibly a dizzy life, that, constant spirals through the sky. Did birds go hungry when it rained? What would raindrops on their wings even sound like?

Those had been his questions when he should have been learning about Leandra Hawke and her many feats of bravery, and Eamon rolled his eyes when Alistair sent his man to the rookery to get some answers. There would be time to learn about who his betrothed was when she arrived, and in any event, he had a suspicion on meeting him, she would change her mind. She’d spend one day here, maybe two, suffer through an awkward dinner, hear whatever joke sprang to mind and then out of his mouth, then get right back on her boat and go back to the Free Marches.

“We have had some requests from the Lady Hawke,” Eamon informed him, interrupting his bath, “The most curious one is that she wishes to be wed right away. Rather than wait the standard month in which the two of you would traditionally get to know each other, she thinks a quick wedding would be best, though she does not specify why. She does say that given the time constraints, she understands a much smaller wedding would be appropriate and that she would prefer less fanfare regarding the entire event anyway.”

Married now or later didn’t really matter to Alistair. A wife who didn’t particularly care for large parties suited him, he supposed, though it might have been useful if _one_ of them had a talent for socializing.

“I think this works in our favor,” Eamon continued, a hand on Alistair’s shoulder, “Less opportunity for cold feet, more time for procuring heirs.”

“Good,” Alistair said, “Fine.”

The change that came over the castle was strange. Everyone knew Alistair had never met the woman and that love was clearly off the table, yet the maids were _giggling_ at him as he walked past. He could only hope it was about his impending nuptials and not that he was living one of his more common dreams of walking the throne room arse-naked. To avoid constantly gawping at his own legs, he kept patting down his clothes to make certain they were still there. He was also given interesting looks by various courtiers that he might have described as _knowing_. The castle healer _and_ the chapel’s mother both requested audiences with him in which they attempted to explain his role in the wedding night. The castle healer, despite Alistair’s horrified protests, went so far as to describe positions best suited for producing heirs.

Other than getting fitted for his wedding attire, the only preparation Alistair made was choosing her quarters. She could switch when she arrived, if she wanted to, but he picked a room facing south, with a view of the forests and the mountains and away from the noise of the courtyards or the city. It would have sun in the winter to complement the large fireplace, and the best furnishings of all the unoccupied guestrooms once he’d had them all replaced.

She would probably redecorate a minute after arriving, but Alistair would not have his bride be uncomfortable in her own home if he could help it.

He spent the morning of his bride’s arrival in the kennels. He expected the activity of the next few days would prevent him from enjoying the company of the only Fereldans who never asked him for anything beyond what he could provide. A belly rub here, an ear scratch there, and treats from the kitchens for all. One of his favorites was currently trying to wean her pups, and they were trying very hard not to be weaned. He didn’t blame them.

“It’s difficult to go off on your own,” he told the mother as she tried and failed to find a better hiding place from her litter. The squalling puppies tripped over themselves trying to follow her, one going so far as to bite her tail. Only one seemed interested in exploring the world, taking a jaunty little stroll straight out the kennel doors.

Alistair went out to fetch her, cooing over the silly little thing before Eamon’s firm grasp descended on his shoulder and propelled him to his carriage. He had hardly returned her to her pen before he was swept off to meet his bride.

“You could have dressed better for this,” Eamon reprimanded him as they stood at attention at the docks, “First impressions last, Alistair.”

“Uncle, she is not marrying me for my looks or my personality, so it must be my wealth or my power. Neither one of those is stored in a doublet, I’m afraid.” On further inspection, however, Alistair realized he was absolutely covered in dog hair. Well, it would be a very traditional welcome to Ferelden for the new queen, he supposed.

Alistair hadn’t spent a lot of time imagining what his new bride might look like, but the woman making her way down the gangway was not what he expected. She hid most of her features under a traveling cloak, though her back was straight enough as she walked. Still, he would not describe her figure as regal, confident, or power-hungry. It was not the silhouette of someone he would assume had cut down an entire Qunari horde. She simply looked like a woman who perhaps was feeling a bit wobbly after time spent at sea.

Then again, nobody looking at Alistair seemed to remember he had slain an archdemon.

When she reached the dock, he offered his arm out to her. He had expected her to be taller. Had someone told him she was taller? She wasn’t short, but she just wasn’t very tall, either. She hesitated before she reached out to take his arm, which was curious for someone so eager to be wed to a complete stranger, and Alistair chanced a glance at her face.

 _Maker,_ but she was beautiful.

He had not expected that, either. Dark eyes that radiated warmth through the uncertainty on her face and cheeks whipped pink in the wind. Her hair was black under her hood and her lips were—

Well. Her lips were better off not thought about at all.

He also noticed, somewhere beyond dark lashes and a dimpled cheek that was almost smiling as her eyes swept across the city, that she looked tired. Very, very tired. Boat travel was not for everyone. He’d already instructed the servants to have a bath ready for her in her quarters. And her odd requests for the wedding mostly involved giving her as much privacy as she wanted beforehand, so perhaps she had known what sort of state she would arrive in. Perhaps, were it not for seasickness, she would have requested to be married on the very docks where they stood, dog hair and all.

Her introduction to Eamon was brief and cordial. She had manners, and Alistair realized he did not, because other than offering his arm, he had not told her who he was, stunned into silence by a pretty face.

“I’m Alistair, by the way,” he said when Eamon was out of earshot.

“Yes, I… I assumed that, your majesty. Everyone does keep bowing.”

Of course. He searched for a single non-stupid thing to say to her. “We received your trunk a week ago. You’ll find it in your quarters, untouched as you requested.”

If this pleased her, she didn’t show it. “Thank you.”

Maker. Already the most awkward conversation of his life, and he’d only reached the carriage. What could he possibly be expected to say to her for an entire carriage-ride? For a lifetime?

He helped her up and sat across from her. Should he have sat next to her? That felt rather presumptuous, even if he would prefer to sit facing forward. She picked at one of the small, white hairs now littering the sleeve of her cloak, holding it up to inspect it. Alistair guiltily looked at his own sleeves, absolutely covered them.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered, “I should have ah, well.” Should have woken up a completely different person who didn’t allow the dogs to climb all over him.

“I just hope to meet her one day,” Hawke replied.

He jerked up sharply to catch her watching him. She looked away quickly, a little shyly perhaps, another almost-smile on her face. “I can arrange that,” he offered. He was rewarded with a tiny nod.

“Do the windows open?”

“Of course.” He jiggled with the mechanism, happy to do something useful, fiddling until he felt the air coming through. “We tend to keep it closed for warmth and, well the air in town isn’t always so fresh, and the noise…”

“I missed the noise,” she said, “Of—of Ferelden. Kirkwall has a different accent. Not just its people but the city itself.”

That was a rather poetic notion, and Alistair wasn’t going to ruin the sound for her by adding his voice to it. She closed her eyes, the breeze catching her hair. After a moment, he realized she was deeply asleep. He allowed himself to relax, sinking into his seat and taking a breath of air that filled his lungs to bursting before letting it all out. Harder to make an ass of himself if she were unconscious.

The wind from the window was cold, though, and after searching a bit, Alistair found a blanket under his cushion. He carefully draped it over her. Not so scary, his future wife. Sort of pretty and soft and sleepy.

He might have preferred it if she were scary.

“She’s quite the beauty,” Eamon preened after Alistair had escorted her to her quarters, “The reports did say, but when someone is willing to marry a stranger, you never know. Then again, I suppose you are quite the handsome young man.”

“If you say so.”

Alistair did not feel young and handsome. He felt, oddly, like a jailor, though it wasn’t as if he had locked her in. Not yet, anyway. Marriage into royalty was its own kind of prison, and as a noble woman she must have known that, but Alistair found himself very concerned she did not.

He went back to his own quarters to get away from Eamon and, apparently, to have a last fitting with the tailor who was waiting for him. Strange to stand in his bedroom and think that the following evening there would be another person there. Well, one person fewer, too, once the tailor left, so the same amount of people as now but significantly the other person in the room with him would be his wife.

Strange, that.


	2. Chapter 2

Bethany woke with a hand over her mouth.

 _No. No, no no no no no no no._ She couldn’t scream. She knew screaming only made it worse. She’d heard—been warned—when she arrived in the Circle that her best bet was to keep her head down, attract the attention of nobody, and she’d _done_ that, she had.

But she couldn’t control what her sister did. No one could. And the day after they watched the city burn from afar, after Orsino came back to the Gallows with none of the other mages he had left with, a templar had pointed at Bethany, and she found herself dragged before Meredith.

She didn’t hear much of what was said. Or at least, afterward, she didn’t remember much of it. Just the way Meredith scrutinized her, her eyes traveling up and down, up and down. Her sister had a new title, traveled in the company of apostates—and how that word was spit at Bethany’s feet—and for this the templars would be keeping a closer watch on the younger Hawke.

She was a hostage.

She didn’t blame her sister for it, it sounded like she’d done something brave and stupid and heroic, but now Bethany’s life was ruled by whether Meredith approved of Lea’s actions. Nobody ever approved of Lea’s actions, not even Lea half the time.

The few friendships she had made over the past three years quietly melted away with apologetic glances, though Bethany could not ever claim to be alone. She was watched, nothing more, nothing less, and for a while it seemed like that was all she was.

But then a hand covered her mouth in the dark and she didn’t know if it was tranquility or death, but Bethany didn’t scream or bite down or even fight much. She went utterly still. Instead of finding herself smashed against plate armor, however, she was pulled against a warm body. “Quiet, sweet thing, and we’ll get out of here just fine.”

Isabela. 

“Oh, Bethany,” she said when she turned to see her face. She tucked a piece of Bethany’s hair behind her ears, and it was the most kindness anyone had shown her in months. “We’ve got you now. It’ll all be alright.”

“I can’t leave,” Bethany whispered, “Something like this… they’ll come down even harder, stricter on everyone else. They’ll just find me again. If I go, it’ll be so much worse—”

“Hawke has a plan,” Isabela assured her, “And the first part is to get you safe.”

Isabela’s words of encouragement didn’t stop her hands from shaking, though, as she grabbed everything she owned worth anything to her. A staff, a few letters, a bit of embroidery, all stuffed neatly in a small bag.

Isabela pulled her close to whisper further instructions. “There’s going to be a loud explosion to our left. We are going right.”

Bethany dutifully followed her down the hall, and when the explosion hit, Isabela kicked out the bars on the window, grabbed Bethany by the waist, and jumped out with her.

In hindsight, Bethany should have expected the rope. For a moment she was simply airborne, plunging toward the waters below, then Isabela gave her a sharp jerk, and they were hanging against the wall together. Lea really had come to rescue her with a plan. Bethany got her hands around the rope, and the two of them made their way down to a waiting boat where Lea dragged her into her arms. 

“Why?” was all Bethany managed to get out. Three years of idleness in a circle, and her muscles weren’t what they used to be. Rappelling took everything she had out of her. She could barely lift her arms to hug Lea back, and she wasn’t at all certain she wanted to. Why rescue her now?

“Your letters had me worried. And then they stopped, Beth.”

Merrill appeared from nowhere, giving Bethany a quick squeeze on the arm. Then the boat began to move, silent in the night. “I kept sending them,” she replied stupidly.

“That’s worse,” Lea replied, “You see how that’s worse, right? How I would worry even more? And then…” She blew out a puff of air that jostled her fringe. “The King of Ferelden has asked for my hand in marriage, sight unseen. It seemed a bit of an opportunity, given… well. Given that I can’t leave Kirkwall, but you have to. My plan is to send _you_ to him, and by the time he figures out he has wed the wrong sister, it will be too late.”

“What?”

“I know it’s a strange plan, but Meredith won’t be able to get you if you have the King’s protection.”

Bethany entertained the idea that she was in the Fade for only a moment. No Fade dream had ever been this absurd or hard to follow. Escape from the Gallows with explosions and pirates, sure. But marriage to a king? “I don’t want to marry anyone,” she said, “Can’t I just…?” She couldn’t finish the question, because she couldn’t think of a single alternative. 

“Right, yes, that is the flaw in the whole plan,” Lea said, giving Bethany’s arm a squeeze, “But from everything I’ve heard, the King is handsome, very kind, and very, very stupid.” She shot a glance at Isabela, who nodded.

“Broad shoulders, Beth. Big as you like. And nice eyes.”

“But marriage?” It wasn’t even something she had ever considered for herself. Especially not in the last three years. It had been a pipe dream as a girl she would find someone as understanding as her mother had been for her father, as willing to hide and run when needed, but after she entered the Gallows such ideas were as far-fetched as roses grown on blighted lands. There was no room for love in the Circle.

They were rapidly approaching the Kirkwall docks, and Lea looked frantic. “You have a choice, Bethy. We can put you back in your bed in the Gallows, but I don’t want to risk that. Or you can come stay with me, though they’ll find you in a week and I’ll spend the rest of my life dumping templar bodies into the harbor until they run out or I make a mistake, or you can get on the boat to Ferelden. Marry the king, don’t marry him, run away, ask them to drop you somewhere else, it’s all fine. But right now, you have a choice.”

Bethany’s hands were still shaking.

Isabela lifted Bethany’s chin with a gentle knuckle. “I’ve met Alistair, sweet thing. If it were me, and my options were the Gallows or try my luck with him, I’d choose him. You could have him wrapped around your finger in weeks, and then the world is your oyster.”

Lea made one more push. “It’s a political marriage, Bethy. He’s not expecting you to love him. He just needs someone on the empty throne next to him. Trust me, I made it very clear.”

With more time to think, Bethany probably still would have made the same decision. Her plan was ridiculous, thoughtless, impossible, but Lea was right. Ferelden was safer. Even if Bethany was discovered the moment she set foot on land, there was a chance with her phylactery destroyed that she would be sent to the Ferelden Circle this time. They didn’t get much news in the Gallows, and Circles weren’t encouraged to communicate with each other, but it was a common belief that things were lax there. There was no reason to believe in Lea’s insane assertion that being married to a king would prevent her from being sent to the Circle, but Ferelden could be better. She wouldn’t be a hostage, at least.

They had reached the dock, and she had to make her choice.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” she told the women as tears began to fall. All three of them held her, hugged her, shuffled her off onto the boat that was waiting for its last bit of cargo before crossing the Waking Sea.

“Write to me!” Lea called after her. Bethany nodded and headed below decks. Already seasick from the boat across the harbor, she knew she was in for a miserable trip. Probably for the best, so she couldn’t think too hard about what she was about to do.

~

Andraste help her, Isabela was right. Alistair _was_ broad. Very broad. Tall, too. Handsome. Like someone had taken a stroll through her girlish daydreams back in Lothering and plucked him straight out of one.

This would have been more intriguing to her if she hadn’t been concentrating so hard on tossing up her non-breakfast at him. Perhaps Lea had been correct in calling him kind, too, because he did not press or pressure her in any way during their first morning together. He simply delivered her at her room and offered to have a private dinner with her later.

What could she do but accept? Maker, she was supposed to marry him. A perfect stranger who kept looking at her like he was confused as to her very existence. He seemed to have no opinion on her acceptance either way and left her with a cursory bow.

Her new quarters were much nicer than her old ones. No bars on the windows, for a start, and the locks were on the inside. There was a large bed, a writing desk, thick carpets, fresh flowers in vases around the room, and, interestingly, there was the trunk Alistair had mentioned. Bethany didn’t own anything anymore—legally she was not allowed to—so it was curious an entire trunk had been delivered for her. The red painted seal confirmed it came from Lea. It wasn’t locked, though if it had been, Bethany would not have been able to open it. She was going to have to trust the King that he hadn’t had people rifle through what were ostensibly her things.

A hot bath steaming by the fireplace called to her, as did what looked to be a very comfortable bed, but neither held as much temptation as the trunk, so she sat on her knees and opened it.

The top layer held all of her old clothes, many of them patched or, no—new clothes, made of finer materials, but in much the same style. Lea must have had them match her old measurements. They still probably weren’t fancy enough for a queen, but that was someone else’s problem. A royal seamstress or master of the household or one of the other million positions that may or may not have existed and Bethany didn’t know the first thing… not the first thing about being queen.

She steadied herself. Alistair thought he was marrying Lea, and it’s not like Lea knew anything about anything. She plunged on through her trunk. 

Her hand hit on something angular and wooden. A carved box. Inside she found her mother’s pearl bracelet and Carver’s necklace. She hadn’t even known Lea had taken it from him after he fell. A dragon's tooth, Lea had told him when they were children. A wolf's tooth at best, Bethany saw. She found more of her mother’s jewelry—both simple things from their time in Lothering and the expensive items that survived from her earlier life, the few things they hadn’t pawned, or maybe Lea had purchased them back after she returned from the Deep Roads. There was more here, her mother’s favorite blanket, embroidered kerchiefs that had Lea’s hand on them, old letters and a portrait of Lea, another of the dog, and at the bottom, the blade attachment for a staff.

_I couldn’t fit the whole staff in the trunk. This was Dad’s. -Hawke_

Bethany cried— _again_ —Maker, would she never stop crying? Three years of her family being severed from her, and she only got it back by leaving the country forever. And these were just _things_. She opened her window to feel the fresh air on her face, freedom in the breeze.

After her bath and a nap wrapped up in her mother’s blanket, she felt almost like a new person—one who hadn’t been a prisoner for three years. She put on her mother’s bracelet and switched the chain on Carver’s pendant so it was hidden in the bust of her new dress, and tucked away one of Lea’s many kerchiefs.

So armed with the remnants of her family, Bethany was ready to take dinner with her future husband.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite knocking on her door, Alistair managed to look bewildered when Bethany stepped out of the room, as if he were surprised to find her there at all.

“I’m here to escort you to dinner, my lady,” he said, looking not at all convinced that that was why he was there. He did lead them to a private dining room set for two, however, so he must have been telling the truth.

Bethany had to remind herself that the guards around the castle were not templars and that ducking her head any time she saw one was not the appropriate response of a lady. The castle was stone, yes, and at night it was as dim as the gallows in some corners, but it did not smell of fear and there was no echo of crying that she’d heard yet. There were tapestries on the walls and the doors didn’t have barred windows because jail cells did not hide behind them. There was no stench of lyrium or salt. She realized she was grasping Alistair’s arm too tightly and was glad to have a reason to let go when he moved to pull her chair out for her.

She fingered the pearls on her wrist under the table and reminded herself that she was not a prisoner. Not anymore. Not ever again. There was a satchel of coin at the bottom of her trunk, and if Bethany needed to leave, there were exits enough.

“There will be a larger dinner tomorrow,” Alistair informed her, “A feast more like, but I thought after your journey today you might prefer something simpler.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

They ate in silence, Bethany trying very hard not to slurp her soup. Family dinners felt a lifetime away—five people around a table, squabbling over whether Carver was allowed to have a favorite plate that only he got to use and if Lea’s portion of beans was too large and unfair. Later there were dinners with Lea’s friends—comparing loot at the table or dagger size. Then three years of silence. She didn’t remember how to talk about anything normal, so she was relieved when Alistair broke the silence.

“Is there anything you would like to know about your new home? Or… I suppose… about me?” That last part was said as an afterthought, almost as if he was confused by his own offer.

Bethany knew the tactical decision would be to learn as much as she could of his character and decide tonight whether she should flee. But she’d never been a great judge of character. Her judgment in general was questionable. She spent her life following other people, and when she’d gotten up the courage to make one decision for herself, it was only to get thrown in Gallows and spend the worst three years of her life.

Isabela and Lea said Alistair was kind, unthreatening, and unlikely to hurt her. They would know.

So instead of learning about Alistair, she asked the much more pressing question on her mind, “Would I be allowed to explore the grounds?”

This almost seemed to relax him. His shoulders fell; he leaned back in his chair. “Of course. The castle and grounds are yours to explore as you see fit. I daresay you’d be allowed to change them if you’d like.”

“What about the city? Or the forests I can see from my windows?”

Alistair shot a glance at their attendants. Bethany followed his gaze to find most of them smirking or trying not to smirk, really. Hands over mouths and eyes crinkling at the sides. “Nobility tend to prefer to have guards… royalty even more so.”

He wasn’t exactly mandating that she follow suit. And if Bethany were to be kept under lock and key again, she might suffocate from it. But beyond that, there was something he wasn’t saying. “But?” she prodded.

He sighed, though not in an entirely annoyed manner. A servant who was failing not to smile placed a steaming dish in front of them, and Alistair rolled his eyes. “But my servants would like you to know that I might have a reputation for… sneaking out… on occasion.”

Now she heard a definite laugh, followed by a cough. 

“Is it sneaking out if you’re the King? Can anyone tell a king what to do?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward, dropping his head into his hand as he studied her. “Every minute of every day I’m afraid.”

Her eyes dropped to her lap. She could feel herself almost blushing for some reason. “Have you ever tried saying no?”

Alistair took a breath but responded only with a frustrated sigh through his nose. Was he refusing to answer ‘no’ to even her question? Maker, had Ferelden crowned a doormat and tossed it onto the throne?

Bethany swallowed as her eyes met his. He was, at least, an exceptionally good-looking doormat. 

“But to answer your earlier question,” he continued, “Should _you_ wish to go anywhere, frankly I’m not certain anyone could stop you. Forgive me, my lady, but I don’t think any of my guards could stop the Champion of Kirkwall from going where she wills when she wills it.”

“No, she’s crafty like that.” Like a cat who wanted to be on the other side of every locked door, only Lea had never met a lock she couldn’t pick. She had also never met a guard she couldn’t elude, stab, or simply charm into ignoring her.

“She?”

Bethany twisted her hands under the table. She only needed to keep the charade up for a day or two and she was already botching it. Bollocks. She thought quickly. “Sometimes the title feels more like another person than just me. Something larger, grander, more exciting. I often find myself thinking of the Champion as a being separate to myself.” She felt herself mimicking her sister’s voice as she spoke. Ridiculous. Would he buy that?

As it turned out, he would. Easily. “That sounds very familiar, actually.”

Bethany shoved a piece of chicken in her mouth so she couldn’t say anything else entirely stupid.

“I doubt the Denerim marketplace holds as much danger as a Qunari horde, so you may use your discretion, my lady. I only ask you don’t burn it down as you retreat back to the castle.”

“Clearly my reputation precedes me,” she said delicately, “But I imagine it grew three times over during its journey across the Waking Sea. Tell me, what do you know of my exploits?”

In truth, Bethany’s only accounts of Lea’s adventures came from Lea herself, and occasionally Varric, and neither of them was terribly reliable in giving straightforward and factual information. As Alistair relayed his own understanding of the rumors regarding her sister, Bethany lamented that this was impossible. How could anyone pretend to be Lea? How could Lea think this would work? Thankfully, Alistair was no great listener of gossip. His version of the story was bare bones—there were Qunari, Lea did something, and there were no longer Qunari.

She couldn’t argue with that.

But maybe she should.

_I did this to myself_ had been her constant refrain in the Gallows. When the templars banged down the door to Gamlen’s hovel, she had felt relieved. Finally, _finally_ , the worst thing that could ever happen to her was happening, and she could relax. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder all the time, to live in fear they would come for her or hurt her family. _I did this to myself._

But she had been wrong. The Circle was not the worst that could happen. It was the beginning of worse things that could and would happen. That started happening and did not stop.

The only thing that ended it was her sister’s intervention, not anything Bethany had done. Not a single thing she could have done.

_I did this to myself._

Dinner was almost over, and Bethany was no closer to deciding whether to stay and marry Alistair or flee into the unknown. She was frozen in place as the time for action crept nearer. Was all of this just buying time before her inevitable return to the Circle? Was Lea right that rank and title and a castle could protect her?

Did she want to marry? Did she want to run?

She couldn’t say. She knew what she didn’t want. To hear the tapping of plate sabatons outside her bedroom door. Laughter in the hallways after dark. The scrape of the gate closing behind her. To watch the apprentices dragged off to their harrowings and never know if she would see them again.

Stay or go, it didn’t matter. Bethany couldn’t choose.

But she could let him decide.

The moment the idea struck her, she knew there was no other option. She would tell him who she was, not the Champion, but just a younger sister, and the King could decide what to do with her. She would not tell him she was a mage—that was a mistake she would never make again—but that she was a liar, worthless on the battlefield and hero to no one. Alistair could send her away, throw her out, and that would not be much different than sneaking out in the middle of the night. Or he could decide to go through with it anyway, and she would marry him and discover what it meant to be a queen.

She could put her future in his hands. And so she would.

“Your majesty—”

“Alistair,” he corrected her gently, “You might as well call me by my name.”

“Your majesty,” she repeated, knowing that in two minutes he would not welcome over familiarity with her, “Could we speak in private?”

He glanced from side to side. “More private than this private dining room?”

She glanced over at the guards— _attendants_ , she reminded herself again, they wore no armor—and back at him.

“Oh, well, yes, though you probably should get used to having half a dozen people or so listening in when you speak. Privacy is not exactly one of the privileges that come with royalty.” He gestured for them to leave.

“What are the privileges?” she asked as they filed out.

“I’ll let you know if I discover any. Or you should let me know, actually.”

Fiddling with her mother’s bracelet again, Bethany took a deep breath. It was now or never.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall can have another short chapter today, as a treat.

Alistair’s first dinner with his future wife was much quieter than he would have preferred. He couldn’t tell if she was enjoying herself or bored out of her mind or planning her inevitable usurpation of the throne.

The dinner was also much more observed than he would have preferred. His most fearsome glares at his servants had little to no effect—they continued to grin at their king entertaining a lady. Did no one understand that this marriage was based on nothing other than names and titles? Maker, perhaps he should have taken Eamon up on organizing a honeymoon after the wedding so he wouldn’t have to suffer the misplaced pleasure of his staff.

It was a relief when she asked him to get rid of them.

“Champion,” Alistair said, “Or Leandra, I should call you by your name—”

“Bethany,” she interrupted him, “My name is Bethany, your majesty. I’m afraid you’ve been tricked. I’m not the Champion of Kirkwall, I’m her younger sister. She sent me in her place.”

Alistair blinked as those pieces fell into place. Trickery aside, this did make far more sense. The desire for a quick, small wedding upon her arrival. The fact that Bethany looked and spoke like a lady and not a woman capable of gutting an Arishok. That in the few hours that he’d known her, she walked around like she was confused and cowed by circumstance. Alistair supposed he should wonder _why_ the Champion would send her sister away, but there was something more important to address.

“Are you here of your own volition, Bethany?”

Her eyes widened at the question. “I—” she stammered.

Alistair felt a thick anger gathering in his belly. That someone would force an unwilling woman on him— He swallowed. It would not do to show his anger when he was not angry at her. He kept his voice level. “Would you prefer to return to Kirkwall?”

“No!” she assured him quickly, “No. I…” She took a deep breath, collecting herself. He watched her wide, brown eyes dart back and forth as she considered what she wanted to say next. “The people say you are a kind man. That you are compassionate. Not cruel.”

“Do they?” he asked, briefly wondering what else they said. Certainly their assessment could not be entirely positive.

“I was told I would have no reason to fear you.”

The words fell heavy from her lips. Alistair ran a hand through his hair. Fear him? Why would she possibly…? Oh. _Oh._ That was… a completely reasonable thing for her to worry about, come to think of it. “Bethany, I have no intention of touching you without your permission. Actually, I have no intention at all of—” Alistair paused with his mouth still open. Halfway through a sentence was an awkward time to realize it was not exactly flattering to tell his future wife he had no intention of sleeping with her. Ever. “I am aware that certain expectations come with marriage. Eamon arranged this—” he gestured between them with a flapping hand—“in hopes of procuring an heir and giving Ferelden stability. Though my participation is assumed, uh-" his gesturing became more frantic- "should you produce such an heir in whatever way you discreetly—”

“I think I understand,” Bethany cut into his thoughts, saving him from having to untangle whatever it was he just said. He dropped his hand to his side, wondering what it was even doing in the air like that. “Then, yes. I am here of my own volition.”

 _Why?_ He wanted to ask. With such a pitch as that… Maker. So instead of the woman in front of him being someone he knew almost nothing about, she was a woman with a slightly different name who he knew absolutely nothing about. He sighed. “Why the deception? Why any of it?”

“My sister thought I would be happier returning to Ferelden than… than I was in the Marches. But we have no family left here, no contacts of any kind, really. Our home is lost. When the offer came from your uncle, she thought of it as a kind of opportunity. But she also thought that you wanted her specifically for her… skills and reputation, neither of which I possess. She did not tell me of the subterfuge until I was on the boat ready to leave.”

That sort of lying and deceit made his own family look tame by comparison. But the Champion may actually have been right. Eamon tried to keep it from him as wedding preparations proceeded, but the Bannorn was already arguing over who hated the Champion and why, taking sides simply to _take_ sides for no other reason than to continue their ceaseless arguments. And to criticize Alistair, of course.

“Do you even want to be queen?” he asked her. It seemed a heavy price to pay simply to return home after the Blight.

“I can’t say. I’ve never done it before.” she asked, “Do you actually want a wife?”

“No, not really.” 

“What a pair we make,” Bethany said. He almost laughed at that. Her eyes were affixed to the floor, a vision of beautiful misery.

In Alistair’s experience, desire to be royalty had little bearing on who was forced to royalty, so Bethany’s apathy seemed suited him well enough. If she was telling the truth, she desired nothing more than to be comfortable in her homeland. Alistair was certain he could help her attain such a lofty goal. Fair enough. There was no reason not to proceed.

He escorted her back to her quarters, more grinning servants in the hall, as if he had sent them away to share an illicit kiss with his beloved. He’d love to hear the tales they were spinning of this imagined courtship. Or, really, no, he wouldn’t.

Bethany’s hand was feather-light on his arm this time, as if she were afraid to touch him. He decided he preferred her earlier grasp, tight like she was afraid to let go.

“So where does this leave us?” she asked.

Alistair looked around the hallway. “At your door?” He gestured toward it. “It’s this one. I’m sure you’ll learn it soon enough.”

Bethany stared at him like she’d never seen a door before. “You’re not going to send me away?”

He opened it for her, in case she’d forgotten how. “That would make it a bit harder to marry you tomorrow.”

Her reply was soft, barely audible. “Oh.”

“Goodnight, Bethany,” he said with a stiff bow. 

“Goodnight, Alistair.”

Hearing his name from her lips stopped his retreat to his own room. He rather liked the way it sounded with her southern, rustic accent. It was the kind of accent he heard as a boy, but this time trimmed with kindness. Her door clicked shut, and he continued on, his last night as a bachelor over, spent much like his all his other nights as a bachelor: awkwardly, and mostly alone. He probably should have done something to mark the occasion, but for the life of him, he had no idea what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is often a real pleasure to write Alistair. I love that boy.


	5. Chapter 5

The wedding was held in the small chapel in the castle rather than the Denerim Chantry, as Bethany’s servants told her was tradition. A shame, one lamented, as the last wedding had included a beautiful procession of horses and open carriages and Cailan had tossed coins at the townspeople when it was done. A man came into her room and placed royal jewels on her head and neck. Carver’s necklace was removed from her person, and so was her mother’s bracelet. The best she could do was hide a kerchief in her bustier before her strangely stiff dress was laced and buttoned to her.

The only face she recognized at the ceremony was Alistair’s. Whether he counted as friendly or not… was hard to say. His jaw was set for the whole thing, his back as straight as a wooden board. He flinched the smallest bit when he took her hands, probably because they were so cold. She’d have to apologize later, though they were warming nicely as he held them.

She felt sorry for him now, forced to marry. He did seem a kind man when his first reaction to her lies was to worry about her wellbeing. After their conversation last night, it seemed clear his heart was elsewhere, taken by someone who, for whatever reason, he could not marry. She wondered if he or she was watching the proceedings, and if their heart was breaking. Her hands held tightly in Alistair’s, she could not signal to them that she was a friend, nor would she have known how anyway. She hoped one day to learn who they were.

The situation was clearer for her now. Alistair did not want a wife, not in any of the traditional senses. But perhaps what he needed was an ally. He didn’t despise her for the trickery, and whether he knew it or not, he was providing her safety, so Bethany could be that ally for him. As she said her vows, she meant them, if a little differently than they were intended. She found herself smiling, an unfamiliar feeling of hope caught in her throat. She gave Alistair’s hands a squeeze, and he responded with absolute perplexity.

His own vows were said in a monotone, his eyes focused on their hands, but occasionally looking up to her face. She squeezed his hands again, encouragement, she thought, but to her amusement he once again gave her a baffled look. She almost laughed. They were, undoubtedly, the most ill-suited pair to ever stand before the Maker and pretend to get married. Alistair was now looking almost afraid of her, and she wished she could cover her stupid smile, but he was still holding both her hands in his and she couldn’t pull them away.

And then it was over. Well, almost over. The chantry mother smiled at Bethany, then nodded at Alistair and whispered, “Go on.” Alistair blanched, like he’d forgotten this last important part of the ceremony entirely, and Bethany might have been offended at his panicked expression if she weren’t trying so hard not to giggle. He stared at her for too long before leaning in and giving her a peck just off the corner of her mouth. This appeared to be good enough, because he let go of one of her hands and led her out of the chapel.

~

Alistair had forgotten weddings involved kisses. He had _just_ promised Bethany to never touch her, and now here he was, about to put his _mouth_ on her. Never mind that he had never kissed anyone before and his first one would be witnessed by far too many people. He supposed the fact that she was smiling meant that she was fine with the whole thing—she probably hadn’t forgotten that kissing existed as a concept—but her smiling made the aiming of it all a bit strange. Someone had dressed her in a hundred pounds of fabric and jewels on top, which was completely unnecessary for someone with a face like hers, and his collar itched, but his hands were occupied, and she kept _squeezing_ them for some incomprehensible reason, and now he was stalling.

Blazes.

Nothing for it. He pecked her near her mouth, and given how similar the kiss was to one he had once given Eamon as a young boy, it could hardly be labeled a “first kiss,” and pulling his wife along, Alistair bravely retreated from the whole affair.

He relinquished her in the hallway, excusing himself to get a breath of air outside. It was only natural he be followed by Eamon and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Anora Mac Tir lingering by the door. Fantastic.

“Did I hear the chantry mother correctly?” Eamon demanded, “I thought her name was Leandra.”

“Leandra is the older sister. I have just married the younger sister, second heir to the Amell line, and Champion of nothing, I suppose. Queen of Ferelden now.”

“Alistair—”

“It is done, uncle. I am married. Your desire has been fulfilled.”

“My desire was for you to marry the Champion. And a religious ceremony does not a marriage make.”

Alistair did not like the sound of that. “You would have me destroy her honor for being the wrong sister? I’m not sending her back.”

“That is not what I’m saying." He took a slow breath, angrily huffing it all out. Some days, Alistair was certain Eamon wished he could still drag him about by the ear. "Complete your duty as a husband and a king, Alistair.”

Eamon stared him down, but his meaning was plain enough. Alistair removed the crown from his head to run his fingers through his hair.

“Yes, uncle,” he lied, “I shall.”

Well. Fuck.

He watched Eamon storm off back inside, Alistair’s eyes meeting Anora’s for a moment before she left, too. He couldn’t very well demand Bethany take a lover on his schedule, so he’d have to… make Eamon believe they were married. In all ways. Somehow.

He couldn’t very well do that out here. He adjusted the collar that was still itching him, replaced the crown on his head, and strode back inside like he owned the place.

Bethany was waiting for him in the hall. “We’re to be announced together,” she explained, and he winced at making her wait for him.

“Sorry.”

The Champion’s request for a quick, small wedding meant that very few people were invited. Any noble already in town was welcome, of course, but only a few traveled from their homes to witness the ceremony and partake in the feast. As the previous queen, Anora Mac Tir was apparently given such an invitation and now sat in the place of honor on Bethany’s right. Eamon sat to Alistair’s left, and he heard him gloating to Bann Dormer about how now he could set his energies to wedding off his brother, Teagan. That conversation was simply unbearable, so Alistair decided to eavesdrop on Bethany instead.

“Maker’s breath, you’re the Queen,” Bethany exclaimed.

“I think you’ll find that _you_ are the Queen,” Anora replied.

Bethany flushed a deep red, all the way to the back of her pretty neck. Anora showed her a compassion she had never demonstrated to Alistair, however, and asked, “Is this your first time to Denerim?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I was a bit of a small-town girl growing up in Ferelden. For years, the biggest ‘city’ I ever saw was Redcliffe. My family went for the Wintersend market.”

“Oh, that’s lovely in Redcliffe. They have those little pies—”

“Yes! I ate so many I thought I might be sick. When we got home I tried so hard to recreate the flavors, but I never got it right. But to be fair, I’ve never been a great cook of any kind.”

Alistair was no mathematician, but it struck him that he would have been at the very same markets, running around and trying not to get caught by the castle guards. Had their paths crossed back then? He shifted in his seat to better hear her as she reminisced.

“My siblings were more interested in the games. Carver, my brother, was desperate to win the arm-wrestling contest. We must have been eight at the time, and I begged him not to do it, certain the enormous man at the table would rip his arm clean off. And then he won! He crowed about it for years until Lea got fed up with him and admitted to tickling the back of the man’s bare knees with a feather right as the contest began. Knocked the air right out of Carver. His biggest triumph—a lie.”

Alistair remembered this. He remembered a boy smaller than him besting a grown man. How the adults had laughed. How envious Alistair had been. He tried to remember the rest of the family—three black-haired children running amok. But if he saw her there back then, the memory was long gone.

“Will your brother come to visit now that you are back? I daresay he’d have a chance to win the arm-wrestling contest properly.”

Bethany’s face, a moment ago animated and relaxed, turned porcelain, smooth and expressionless. “He fell in the Blight. He and my sister fought with the King’s forces in Ostagar, but he died as my family fled the horde.” 

Anora placed her hand over Bethany’s. “My dear girl. I am sorry.”

Bethany swallowed. “I’m sure everyone in this room has their own tale of loss, not least of which is you, your majesty.”

The two women held the silence for a moment, hand in hand. Alistair felt he was intruding, having completely failed to enter the conversation and now simply watching as they shared something together.

“Alistair was at Ostagar,” Anora said with an impenetrable look at him.

He cleared his throat. Years of practice had left him able to talk of that battle, though minimally. “Yes. Darrian and I were the only two Grey Wardens to survive.” The way Anora was looking at him now, he wondered if she knew Cailan had kept him out of the action and saved his life. For the first time he wondered if that had been intentional, and not out of spite. He quickly changed the subject. “And even then… both of us took at least three arrows. A witch of all things saved us, though I’m afraid I wasn’t in much of a state to quite remember how.”

“A witch?” Bethany asked.

“An apostate living in the forest in a shack. Completely batty.”

“But she saved you.”

“For her own nefarious purposes, I’m sure. She claimed to be hundreds of years old, and she had this enormous grimoire that I think was made with human skin.” Bethany had gone quite pale and Anora was glaring daggers. Perhaps Flemeth did not make for the best wedding conversation. “Do not fear, my queen, Darrian and I returned to her shack much later and slew her.”

Bethany swallowed, looking not at all comforted by the end of his ghastly story. Anora rescued him. “King Alistair has ordered a monument for those who fell at Ostagar. Perhaps you would like to visit. For some reason it was built in Highever.”

“I’ve never been there either,” Bethany admitted, “The town I grew up in—Lothering— has been wiped clean off the map, I’ve been told. Though I should like to visit and see for myself now that I’m back in Ferelden.”

Maker, how many times had their paths almost crossed? Anora took her hand again in seemingly effortless solace. “Then so you shall, your majesty.” Alistair should be taking notes on this performance of sympathy and friendship. “I’m afraid I’m going back to Gwaren tomorrow, but please, from one queen to another, feel free to write me.”

Now _that_ struck an anxious chord in Alistair. Bethany might not have plans to usurp him now, but a letter or two from Anora, and who knew what ideas she’d have? He did not have too much time to consider this, however, because while he could hold a wedding in the wrong chapel and marry the wrong sister and not invite most of the nobility, some traditions refused to be ignored. A signal went around the room, men and women got on their feet with cheer and noise and Alistair and Bethany were forcibly removed from the hall and escorted very firmly to Alistair’s room with songs and laughter and crass remarks.

When the door shut behind them, Bethany was bright red, and Alistair knew he matched. This was a nightmare. He actually had nightmares like this. He supposed he was lucky his clothes were still on.

“They did warn you that was going to happen, didn’t they?” he asked wretchedly.

Bethany shook her head.

_Fuck._

“Tonight you’ll sleep in my chambers. No one should bother us until morning. You can have the bed, and I’ll sleep, uh… huh.” He paced as he talked, gesturing at his bed, but when he turned to his sofa, he found that someone had removed it. Maker’s breath, did Eamon really think he could _trick_ him into sleeping with his wife? “I’ll sleep on the floor, I suppose.”

He dropped his crown and his assorted jewels on his bureau, glad to be rid of the weight of them. When he turned around, Bethany had not moved at all.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Bethany did not answer. He crossed the room, thinking of how easily Anora had taken her hand, how Bethany had seemed to relax with her. “It’s only for one night,” he said softly.

“It’s not that,” she replied, though she was hardly looking at him. Flames, he had soured their marriage quickly somehow. “I was also saved by a witch during the Blight. She was a scary sort person, but she saved my family. I can’t imagine killing someone after something like that.”

Alistair blinked. He supposed that had sounded sort of callous. Ungrateful. Fearsome, really. The sort of thing a truly cruel person would do. “It wasn’t my idea. Her daughter, another witch, traveled with us. Helped us slay the Archdemon, actually. She asked Darrian to kill her mother, and Darrian asked me for help.”

Now she looked at him again. “She wanted to kill her mother?”

“No. She wanted _us_ to kill her mother. _She_ didn’t come with us.” Bethany did not respond, concern still etched across her face. “I suppose you are wondering now if rumors of my kindness are overblown.”

That hurt for some reason. He didn’t want to disappoint her after only one day.

“Sometimes people are kind to one sort of person, but not another. Members of the first group will declare a person’s good nature as if it is fact, while members of the second group will be too frightened to contradict them.”

“I have known two apostate witches who lived in a shack in the Korcari Wilds. One lives, as far as I know, and one does not. I daresay neither would have anything positive to say about me.”

Bethany swallowed. “You killed her mother for her, and she didn’t even like you?”

“She preferred Darrian. And solitude. And cackling into the night. And turning into spiders and hiding in bedrolls. And boots.” This earned him a tentative laugh. “I much preferred our other mage, Wynne. And Zevran, who tried to assassinate me. Leliana, who might try to assassinate me in the future, come to think of it. But mostly Wynne, who was a healer and never tried to kill me at all. I was hoping she’d be here today, actually. She gave good advice.” Like how not to convince new people he was a scary murdering king.

Bethany was listening to him with rapt attention now, which was rather distracting. He swallowed under the scrutiny of her big eyes looking up at him like she actually cared what he had to say. Not even Wynne focused on him like this, often working on her mending while he babbled to her about whatever it was that bothered him. “Not that I need advice regarding you, of course,” he blathered on.

“Oh? Does being a husband come naturally to you, then? I’m not at all certain I know how to be a wife.”

“Do me a favor and do _not_ learn it from Anora.”

Bethany laughed again, and Alistair found himself smiling. Her crown shifted on her head, the poor woman still wearing the heavy thing for some reason, and her hand raced up to steady it. “Could you…?”

“Of course.” He disentangled it from her hair, which now was falling out of all the pins they’d shoved in it. He placed the crown next to his as she pulled out the rest. “Here,” he said, moving to unclasp a vaguely familiar necklace, his fingers brushing across her neck. She shivered, and he pulled away quickly, placing the necklace next to his. Had Anora worn it? Maker, what tradition strips a widow of her things then forces her to sit next to the woman who now wears them?

“Thank you,” Bethany murmured.

He cleared his throat. “If you’re ready to sleep, I’ll just, uh…” he grabbed a pillow from the bed.

Bethany grimaced. “I can’t get out of this dress by myself.”

It took a moment for him to understand what she was saying. She helped by futilely reaching behind her for all the buttons and things and failing to undo a single one. He supposed he couldn’t call in the servants for help with this one. There was rather the expectation that he would be undressing her. “Oh.” They stared at each other for several more minutes while he considered his options, of which there was only one, and that was to help his wife get ready for bed like a thoughtful person, and he would, probably, if his legs ever started moving again.

Bethany came to him.

“Right.”

If Alistair had never kissed a woman before today, it stood to reason he had never undressed one, either. Bethany stood very still, barely seeming to even breathe as he moved her hair over her shoulder. There were… a lot of buttons. Some laces, too, for some reason. He worked slowly down her back, his heart in his ears, his mouth gone dry. He swallowed, and that sound seemed to echo around the entire room. As he neared the end, the his hands slowed in trepidation of both touching her somewhere he shouldn’t, and in having to stop touching her when he was done. The top of the dress now sagged, her shoulders completely bare, and Alistair couldn’t stop staring at smooth skin. In just a small movement, he’d be able to pull her back against his chest and hold her there.

_Maker._

He stepped away from her. She probably didn’t need those last buttons undone anyway.

“I’ve just thought of something,” Bethany said, holding the front of her dress to herself.

“Hmm?”

“What am I meant to wear to bed?”

Alistair had not thought about that before he began stripping her. “Right,” he said, eyes on his bureau and not the woman whose clothes were literally falling off of her. “Right.”

He opened a drawer at random and found shirts. Perfect. He sidled up to her, shirt held straight out, eyes on the ceiling. She took it, and he sidled away, going to stand by the fireplace. He supposed he should get into his own sleep clothes, but to do that, he’d have to turn around and risk seeing her, and of course, she might see _him_ and that was… not what he wanted.

There was a lot of fabric rustling and at one point Bethany swore under her breath and Alistair’s traitorous mind tried to conjure up what she might look like while he furiously blinked the image away. He was _not_ going to have lecherous thoughts about his wife. More rustling, some footsteps, and then Bethany said, “You can move now, if you like.”

He turned around to find her sitting in his bed, wearing his shirt, untied so the collar of it hung and revealed a shoulder and… he turned right back around.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she said.

“I think you’ll find I do, actually.”

“Up until three years ago, I shared a bed with my sister. I’m used to it, really.”

“I grew up sharing a bed with the dogs,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure why he said that. It wasn’t something he thought about much or shared with anyone. Thinking about the dogs at least got him to stop thinking about her, in his shirt, in his bed, in his arms. The dogs didn’t wear shirts to bed, much less _his_ shirts, and he had never once spent time considering pressing his lips to a dog’s shoulder. Dogs were handy that way. Simple.

“You let them sleep on your bed?” she asked.

He let out a bitter laugh. “I slept with them in the kennels.”

A beat of silence, then she called sternly, “After saying that, you can’t possibly think I’ll allow you to sleep on the floor.”

He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed his sleep clothes. “Avert your eyes unless… Well.” He didn’t check to see if she listened, just changed his clothes while staring at the fire, tossing his wedding clothes in a heap in the corner. He turned to grab the pillow he had liberated earlier, but accidentally met Bethany’s very angry eyes. 

“Alistair, I order you to sleep in this bed with me.”

All previous thoughts of her being meek or cowed were banished. She was fearsome and determined. He swallowed. There really wasn’t anything for it. For all he knew, someone would come check on them in the morning, and if they found him on the floor, they’d put the blame on her. Slowly he climbed into bed—his bed—on the wrong side because she had claimed his side. He did not look at her.

“See?” she asked, her voice a pitch or two higher than it was before, “Isn’t that better?”

“Goodnight, Bethany,” he replied, putting out his lamp.

“Goodnight, Alistair.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for alcohol mentions and drunkenness.

Alistair rarely slept through the night. If it wasn’t the nightmares, he woke up having sweated through his sheets regardless of the season. Almost every night he got out of bed, guzzled down a pitcher of water, opened a window, and eventually collapsed in a heap to toss and turn until morning.

Therefore, he was very surprised when sunlight hit his eyes, waking him from a deep sleep. He squinted, his limbs feeling far away. His left arm felt heavy. His right arm did not appear to be responding at all.

Someone who was not him made a noise of protest.

Alistair’s eyes shot open. He could not move his arm because it was entirely underneath a woman—his wife— _Bethany._ He was—they were— _spooning._

Maker.

He couldn’t wake her up and have her know how he had accidentally, unintentionally… _spooned_ her. No matter how well she fit against his chest or how nice her hair smelled. His left arm was easily removed from her, though she made the tiniest grumpy noise and followed it up with a shiver. Not good. She was on the brink of wakefulness. He would have to be very delicate when removing his right arm. Gently, gently… She shivered again, and though he was so close to extricating himself, he pulled the covers up above her shoulder keep her warm. She responded by wiggling herself closer against his chest.

The door to his room slammed open. Alistair stared in horror at the figure in the doorway—his uncle, of course—and yanked his arm the rest of the way from Bethany. With the noise of the door, and Alistair practically flinging her over onto her stomach, she woke up entirely now, blinking in confusion. Eamon had already left after giving Alistair a triumphant smile and a small pump of his fist, and all Alistair could do was roll over and shove his entire head into a pillow and hope to die.

He did not get out of bed when Bethany did. He did not acknowledge her when she left. He had immediately broken his promise to her, to never touch her, and he had no idea if she knew it. And Eamon… well. His blunder would probably give him a respite from Eamon’s attentions. If he were lucky, Eamon might actually follow through with his threats the previous night and return to Redcliffe to bother Teagan. Let his marriage be the subject of gossip and laughter and scorn and whatever else.

But Alistair was seldom lucky.

~

Bethany reveled in her new freedom. After her first night with Alistair, she returned to her own quarters, wearing dresses simple enough she needed no help with them. For two weeks, there were almost no demands on her time at all, and she wandered freely, first through the castle, discovering the kitchens, where she ran into Alistair, the kennels, where she also ran into Alistair, the small library where she did not run into Alistair, but she pocketed a copy of _The Randy Dowager_ she had not read yet, and an ice house, which was something she had not seen before. Mages, she reflected bitterly, could do the job much more efficiently than transporting ice from elsewhere and hoping it didn’t melt. Before the Circle, ice had practically spilled out of her hands without her thinking about it. But mages were only called when nobility wanted someone dead or, on occasion, kept alive. So Bethany moved on.

As promised, nobody batted an eye when she walked through the gates of the castle to enter the city.

There were people _everywhere_. She was a little dizzy with it at first. Even the feast at the castle wasn’t like this. Three years locked up inside with the same faces every day, five days stuck on a boat, then two in a castle, and now she was _out_.

She cried. Ducked into an alley and covered her face and cried because she remembered what it was to be a person. And she missed her old life, her sister and her mother and her friends and Carver, and she couldn’t have any of that ever again, but she had herself now, and it was _good_.

Nobody knew who she was yet. She was supposed to be introduced to the people at some point, but nobody had told her when that was going to happen. In the castle, people curtseyed and bowed to her and smiled whenever she was in the vicinity of Alistair, but in town she enjoyed anonymity, completely ignored and lost in the crowds.

Nobody was watching her at all, and she cried again.

That first day, she wandered until the sun went down, buying a trinket here or there, a pair of winter gloves she would soon need, and slippers lined with fur. The guards _did_ bat an eye when she arrived after dark, failing to recognize her at first, and for a moment Bethany wondered what would happen if she were locked outside her own castle. Probably just spend a night in a tavern, she supposed, and send her husband the bill.

The absurdity of it all, the freedom and stupidity and the freedom to be stupid, had her giggling again by the time the matter was solved, the guards’ postures noticeably collapsing when it became apparent she had no intention of scolding them. 

Those first days as queen, when she wasn’t running into him everywhere, she mostly saw Alistair for their evening meal, and it took over a week for him to stop looking surprised every time she sat next to him. He looked somewhat horrified every time she smiled at him, too, but that didn’t stop her. She _wanted_ to smile. Occasionally he smiled back like he’d never done it before and wasn’t certain it would stick.

After a few days of simply exploring, Bethany settled into a sort of routine. She had her morning walk to town or out into the forests behind the castle where she read her novels or, when her fingers were feeling itchy, spent all her mana freezing entire swathes of the woods. Ice would be less easy to notice than fire or lightning or anything else, and with her mana always low, there was less chance of her doing anything stupid where anyone could see. When she returned, after a meal that was often eaten alone, she did more reading, but on boring things now. Years of study at the Circle made her quick to scour through old tomes for important information, and she was eager to understand the nation she now ostensibly led. Anora, as promised, wrote her letters, and Bethany was not so dimwitted to misunderstand why. They may have been written as personal correspondence filled with anecdotes and stories, but she was being coached on how to help run a country.

Her first curiosity was that Alistair, while meeting with his advisors almost daily and grumbling about it every night at supper, did not seem to hold court very often. Nobody told her when it was happening, she simply stumbled into it one day, Alistair sitting on the throne like a raincloud, chin resting on his fist as he listened to petitions and complaints and news from far away. He seemed to handle the questions well enough in Bethany’s opinion, some guards to join the templars in investigating a haunting in the market district, improvements to be made to the sewers that served the alienage, repayment to one farmer for some stolen sheep, restitution to a knight whose honor had been questioned unfairly. But after solving the problems put to him, Alistair seemed to have shrunk three sizes. Bethany was surprised his crown still fit. Maybe it had shrunk with him.

The news from around Ferelden didn’t seem so bad, either. Cultists in the south, some darkspawn that still seemed lost on their way home to the Deep Roads, but otherwise the harvest had gone well, and the people would eat. That was the most important thing. So why did he still look dejected?

It was all very strange. In Anora’s letter, she had pointed out no fewer than three times that Cailan had these sessions every morning of the week save one. She had mentioned it while discussing the boredom that could befall a queen who did not know her purpose, and how she sometimes felt slighted her husband’s time was not hers in the morning, belonging to the people of the realm instead, and once more in a story of how tired she was of everyone always hanging around, when Alistair’s court was sparse—just a few nobles in attendance, some locals with their problems, and a handful of knights.

She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She almost brought it up at dinner that evening, but Alistair looked overly grim, still shrunken from the morning, news of his own darkening his brow. He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “It has been decided that instead of announcing you to the people of Denerim as we should have done at our wedding, throwing some coin around and dazzling them with your smile, there is going to be a feast of sorts. A sort of Landsmeet that we aren’t calling a Landsmeet but is definitely a Landsmeet.” He shook his head, then ran his fingers through his hair.

When he didn’t continue, Bethany asked, “Is there something bad about a non-Landsmeet? Isn’t it right that I should meet the lords and ladies and introduce myself?”

Alistair snorted. His food remained untouched before him, and he glared at it now. “A Landsmeet isn’t a meeting. It’s a battle. Only they only let me use my sword _once_ and it still didn’t go the way I wanted.”

“You think they’re not going to like me?”

“How could they?” Before Bethany’s stomach could turn all the way over in shame, Alistair quickly said, “Fuck.”

Oh, well that clarified things. She had thought they were—she had thought she was doing _well._ Well enough, anyway, for only two weeks of learning. Yes, it had seemed clear from their wedding night just how much he hated sharing a bed with her, just how deeply that situation had bothered him, but things since then had been friendly. Warm, at times. And Bethany was certain she hadn’t embarrassed herself too badly anywhere. She hadn’t had any occasion to, really.

“What I mean to say, what I am _trying_ to say—” Alistair ran his hands through his hair again—“Is that the assembled lords of Ferelden don’t _like_ anything. Enough of them hated Loghain to put me on the throne, and enough of them have come to their senses to realize that was a stupid decision.”

“I thought you got married to appease them.”

“More or less. It’s more complicated than that.” He finally turned to look at her. “Bethany, I am sorry. This will not go easily, but it is not your fault.”

Alistair may have already given up this battle, but Bethany wasn’t going to surrender without a fight. “How much time do I have to prepare?”

“Two weeks. Everyone will be here in two weeks. My gift to you for Satinalia.”

“I didn’t come here to make your life worse, Alistair.” Bethany was on her feet and she wasn’t sure when she got there. She began to pace around their dinner table now.

“You—you haven’t.”

“I’ve been studying. Reading. But I could do so much more with tutelage. If I had access to your reports or sat in on your meetings. I could be useful to you, if you let me.”

He looked at her now, guileless and small. “It’s miserable work.”

“Maybe it will be easier with two.”

“I don’t want to force you—”

“You aren’t forcing me to do anything. I’m offering. I’m _asking_.”

He wouldn’t say no. He couldn’t. She knew this. A horrible quality in a king. After a minute he nodded, and Bethany sat down again, her fingers drumming on the table with energy that had nowhere to go.

“Shouldn’t there be… ladies?” Alistair asked. Bethany stared at him blankly. “You know, who walk two steps behind you everywhere?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sure Anora had them. All the other queens I’ve met seemed to have them. Some of them dressed alike, like a uniform. Do you want some?”

“Where would we even procure them from?”

Alistair almost laughed. “I have no idea.”

Bethany took a sip of her wine. She had been avoiding drinking too much since she arrived, her tolerance for alcohol completely absent after her time in the Gallows, and she hadn’t wanted to make a bad impression, but as it turned out, her husband believed her incapable of making a good impression anyway, and wine felt like just the thing for an evening like this.

Alistair continued staring at his food, not eating it. He did glance at Bethany as her cup was refilled by a servant. He lifted his cup for more wine, too, though it was not empty, and when she drank hers, he drank his.

“If you are to be shadowing me, then I will admit, on a night like this, I would be expected to entertain nobles in my hall with some music or some other diversion.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. She could no more imagine that than she could imagine him riding a flying pig. Actually, the pig seemed more plausible, provided it was a large one.

“And what would you actually do instead?”

He ducked his head, almost bashful. “I would sneak out and go to the tavern.”

Bethany looked at their uneaten dinners and Alistair’s slouched posture and felt the warm wine in her belly and nodded. “Let’s be off then.”

~

The walk to the tavern settled Bethany’s earlier anger and nerves. Or maybe it was the wine seeping into her bones. She leaned on Alistair’s arm, and he hardly seemed to notice. The moment they left the gates, the guards raising eyebrows at each other but saying nothing, Alistair seemed taller again, broader.

He took her to a meaner part of town, a kind of place where she might expect to find Varric or Isabela waiting for her, and though they weren’t there, the ale was just as awful and the food was just as rich and thick. And she was a little happy and a little homesick and a little drunker than she ought to be.

People knew him here, and she tried to pay attention as he walked all over and talked to everyone. She was happy to sit in her seat and listen and drink and wonder if his lover was here. Would she finally meet him or her or whoever? Is that why he seemed so dejected recently? Had her presence stopped him from visiting them?

“I can keep secrets,” she told him when he returned to their table a fresh drink in his hand for her.

He hesitated on actually handing her the drink as he took in her words. “That’s good to know, I suppose.”

“If something were really important to you, you could tell me. I’m good at secrets.”

He tilted his head as he studied her, finally pushing the tankard over. “I… thank you, I think.”

But he didn’t tell her. And he clapped hands with men and women alike, his smile still not quite meeting his eyes, and maybe his lover wasn’t here. Maybe they didn’t want to meet Bethany. She rested her face in her hands and wondered why it bothered her. People laughed at his jokes and they sang a lively song about the Blight that featured him and Darrian and then another, sadder song about the Blight and Alistair sat next to her again, all golden and she wanted desperately to drop her head onto his shoulder.

“It could be like this, you know,” she told him, the words coming out too slowly, like syrup on her tongue.

“What could?”

“Court.”

He laughed at her, but she meant it. Not that court was a tavern, but he could be like this. Warm and confident and funny and _person_ rather than a shrinking raincloud. And people would like him. People _did_ like him. But he was too stupid and sad to know it.

“I think it’s time to bring you home.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “You said you wouldn’t send me back.”

“No, I mean… to our home, Beth. To the castle.”

“Oh.”

She took his arm, but it wasn’t really enough, and she stumbled right into him. “Steady there,” he murmured, both arms holding her now. “Remind me, next time we’re out, just how small you are.”

“I’m not small,” she protested, “Some people are just uncommonly large.”

“You’re small, Beth,” he said as he shuffled her outside, “Tiny. Half the time I wonder if I turn around if you’ll just have completely disappeared.”

“Not this time,” she replied, her head heavy on his shoulder, “I don’t ever want to disappear again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bethany is not small. She's like an average 5'5-5'6. She's right in that Alistair is uncommonly large. 
> 
> As for Alistair saying "how could they?" His thought process went a little bit like, "They never like what I like, why would they like her?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a lot of UST in this chapter.

Bethany missed her first morning meetings after the night at the tavern. She did not miss any more, however. Two weeks to try to make a good impression on, well, everyone, and she was motivated. There were some lifted eyebrows when she joined her first meeting with the councilors. She stood awkwardly while another chair was fetched for her. Alistair mostly sat there, eyes on the table and looking miserable as they decided what he should do with the country. They weren’t wrong, exactly, as far as she could tell, anyway, but she didn’t like how the meetings felt. And she didn’t like how Alistair often took twenty minutes after to be able to even look at her again. Like he was ashamed or something.

Four days before her debut in front of every noble in Ferelden, on her way to their meeting, she caught him standing in the hallway, a fierce expression on his face.

“You wanted reports?” Alistair grumbled, brandishing an opened letter, “Here, have this one, but I can just tell you what it says. Respectfully blah blah blah please send your army to root out a harmless nomadic band of elves living in a forest that I am too afraid to enter because the trees talk.”

He walked while he talked, and Bethany found herself taking quick steps to keep up. “The trees talk?”

“Rubbish poetry, I’m afraid, which yes, I know, in itself is a pun.”

Bethany giggled as Alistair rolled his eyes, but she could see him grinning as they strode through their halls together.

“I’ve reminded the bann repeatedly that unlike his army, which sided with Loghain and wasted their time fighting Fereldans, the Dalish actually sent their archers to fight the bloody Archdemon.”

The only Dalish Bethany had met was Merrill’s clan. Tucked away on Sundermount, where nobody wanted to go in the first place, she had still witnessed templars who had made the trek in their plate armor just to harass them. And not just the templars—other Marchers, too, incensed by the elves very existence. It felt a little familiar. She had sympathy for them.

“You’d think they’d welcome the trade of a nomadic group who has needs they cannot provide for themselves and goods that would be uncommon or I daresay useful.” Alistair raised an eyebrow at her. She shrugged. “I have always found Dalish halla cheese to be particularly delicious and hard to come by.”

Without warning, Alistair grabbed her and pulled them both into an alcove. He popped his head out in to the hallway, swiveling left and right, and with a sigh turned back to her, though she could see he was still listening for… something. His eyes were unfocused somewhere above her head and his eyebrow quirked as she waited.

“Are we in danger?” Bethany whispered. One of his hands was grasping her waist, the other on her shoulder, and she was unbearably close to him. She could feel his heartbeat, or maybe that was actually hers, just very, very loud.

“We very well might be if anyone overheard you praising elven cheese.” 

She gave a breathless sort of laugh. “Is that all?”

He looked down at her now, all incredulous and wounded. “Maker’s breath, if the people learn that my wife prefers halla brie to their cow and goat cheese…”

“I didn’t say I preferred it. But it is—”

He covered her mouth with his hand, looking back toward the hall again. “Don’t finish that sentence,” he whispered in her ear. Footsteps passed them by.

Bethany swallowed, for the first time in her life wondering if she might faint. She felt like fainting, she was sure, and Alistair would probably catch her, so that was alright. But she didn’t faint, her heart pounding in her ears, and, noticeably, somewhere far lower than her ears, roundabout her belly. Alistair turned his burnt honey eyes back to her, removing his hand from her mouth as if he’d burned it, and Bethany wanted to curl herself into him. She wasn’t even sure what that meant, just that she wanted to, and if he took his other hand off her, she might just collapse for real. He moved a bit of hair away from her face. Bethany couldn’t move and she couldn’t think and she wanted—

“Your majesty?”

They bumped heads as they both turn toward the voice—Chamberlain—and Bethany removed her hand from Alistair’s arm to rub the spot. 

Flustered, the man bowed. “Forgive me, your majesties,” he said with a grin before retreating.

“We should… um… probably—”

“Yeah,” Bethany replied.

Alistair stepped into the hall, adjusting his clothes. Bethany straightened her own skirts out, trying to piece together what had just happened. All of that over cheese? What if she had told him she didn’t care for potatoes?

Part of her wondered if she might try saying that sometime, just to see what he would do.

# ~

Alistair almost missed the knocking on his door, soft as it was compared to the rain outside. He would expect a knock at this hour to be loud and urgent, some horrible emergency for him to handle, or fail to handle more like. Well, he’d rather deal with a polite ghost than read these treasury reports, so he padded over to his door, opening it to find Bethany standing wretchedly in the hallway.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said to the floor.

“You didn’t.” He held the door open and she shuffled in, still not looking at him. “It’s hard to sleep with all this racket,” he sighed. Not that he had been trying. 

“It seems late in the season for thun—” Her word ended in a petrified squeak as another peel shook the windows. Bethany swallowed. “I’m not afraid of thunder,” she lied like a little lying liar.

“Mhm.” He gestured over to his sofa which he’d recovered, sitting at one end while she perched nervously next to him.

“Nobody _likes_ loud noises,” she muttered.

“Oh, I’ve known a few who do,” he retorted, “Mind you I think their hearing was shot after all the explosions they started. Useful for getting through the Deep Roads at times. If you aren’t afraid of cave-ins. Or if you particularly enjoy cave-ins.”

“I’ve never been in the Roads. My sister went, but she left me behind. I suppose they don’t have thunderstorms there.”

“Now that you mention it, that may have been the one good part of the Deep Roads. My boots were never soggy and wet there. Dry feet for days.”

If his nonsense relaxed her at all, the next blast of thunder undid it. She looked like she might vibrate away, from fear or cold, so he threw more logs on his fire, grabbed a blanket, sat down again, and reflected for the thousandth time on how easily Anora had comforted her on their wedding day. He’d played the moment in his mind over and over again, Anora reaching out and taking her hand, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Bethany squeezing her hand back. The two of them sharing _something_. He could do this, he thought. Easier when she was drunk and swaying and holding her was the only option other than dropping her on the floor. But he could provide physical comfort for someone he was ninety percent sure was in need of it.

He started simply. He unfolded the blanket and spread it across their legs. Bethany rearranged herself a little, tugging at the end of it to cover her legs entirely, which seemed a good sign. Though once again, with Bethany in his room, for no apparent reason he was reminded of his time in Redcliffe. He had never feared thunder, but many of the dogs did, and he had spent many nights soothing them as they barked and trembled and licked his face.

Bethany was only doing one of those things, and she probably would not appreciate a pat on the head. Though as she turned her wide, frightened eyes at him, the urge to do so grew stronger. He had to do _something._ He lifted his arm, reaching out a little, probably not to pat her head, though he couldn’t say what his goal was, and as he did so, more thunder boomed. Bethany threw herself against his chest, so he closed his arm around her.

Well. It was easy enough if she just did it herself.

“Sorry.” The word was muffled in his shirt.

“No need to be sorry,” he said, holding her a little tighter in case she got the idea to let go. He wondered if she could hear his heart pounding. Perhaps she might just assume he was afraid of thunder, too. It was as good a reason as any to hold her as tightly as he was.

Had she been a dog, he would have rubbed her back. After a moment of consideration, he did this now. She seemed to like it, probably.

“Tell me more about the Deep Roads,” she demanded of his chest.

Alistair sighed, leaning into a more comfortable position and taking Bethany with him. “We went to Orzammar first. The dwarves had signed a treaty to help the Grey Wardens. But, when we arrived, they were in the midst of trying to start or prevent a civil war depending on the hour of the day. So we went into the Roads and did a bunch of heroic and terrible things and tried our best to forget what they were right after. Not too dissimilar from the rest of the country, really. Nothing like a Blight to cause everyone to lose their minds and start battles where everyone loses.”

Bethany wiggled enough so that her face wasn’t pressed directly to him. “Other than Loghain, you mean?”

He nodded. “The Circle was the worst of it. The tower at Lake Calenhad.”

As if to emphasize his point, a clap of thunder reverberated around the room. The fire almost guttered, then roared back to life. Strange, that. He hadn’t felt a draft. Bethany began to tremble again, and he rubbed her back over the blanket in an attempt to warm her up. Her voice was very soft when she asked, “What happened there?”

“Exactly what you would expect to happen when you take a bunch of powerful people who can commune with demons, lock them in a tower, and throw away the key. Some of them gave in to their worst instincts, and everyone paid the price.”

He almost didn’t hear her next words over the crackling of the fire and the drumming of the rain. “Did they use the rite?”

“No. We were able to save some of the mages. Templars had already run away and hidden from their charges. Wynne got the children out. They helped in the fight against the Archdemon, too, though everyone likes to forget that. The mages, not the children, nor the templars for that matter. And for the fighting, I mean, not the forgetting. Though I suppose I wouldn’t mind if the children forgot it all.”

Bethany was quiet, perhaps not understanding a word of whatever it was he just said, wincing only a little at the next crash of thunder. Surely the sky had to be tired of this by now. He shifted them both again to get better support for his head. Bethany was curled into the smallest version of herself, one hand tangled in his shirt, and Alistair pulled the blanket up to her chin.

“Sorry. I suppose my stories aren’t… they aren’t very good, are they. Not for settling the nerves. I wonder how Leliana would have told it. There was a sloth demon that caught us in his web who might have come in handy for getting some sleep. Or… actually I think he was trying to kill us, so not very helpful there.”

Bethany stirred. “I’ve always wondered why sloth demons weren’t more energetic. They steal your energy, suck the life right out of you, but they walk along like they’ve never had a nap in their life.”

“That’s a… really good point.”

“Did it tempt you?”

“Not exactly. Maker, this is not the most flattering story of my personal heroics.”

“None of the stories you’ve told me have sounded terribly heroic.”

He snorted. She had him there. “We all fell asleep, and the demon crafted illusions for us. I was with my family—my real family—a half-sister and her children. In reality she wants nothing to do with me unless it’s money. In the dream, we were… well. Darrian showed up and stabbed her death in front of me, and we killed the sloth demon together.”

He’d never told anyone about that before. They had all sort of silently decided not to tell each other what fantasy the sloth demon plunged them into. Alistair had felt such the fool, so easily falling into what should have been an obvious trap. As if his sister could—as if she had ever—as if _anyone—_ well. Zevran and Wynne were equally reluctant to talk about what happened, and the entire affair, along with Alistair’s hope of a family who cared for him, was best forgotten.

The rumbles of thunder no longer shook the windows, but Alistair found he had no desire to move at all. Maybe ever. Bethany evidently felt the same, because she was asleep. Her fingers twitched against his chest. He felt an odd sort of pride that his efforts to calm her had worked _so_ effectively, a warm sort of tugging in his heart.

“Sleep well, Beth,” he whispered.

Alistair did not sleep well. He did sleep, because the fire went from roaring to embers to nothing, and he was certain he missed some of the progression. What he would have liked to do was get up, blow out the candles by his desk, grab at least three more pillows and a second blanket that actually reached his feet, and reposition them both so he wasn’t falling off the sofa in the first place. Not that his legs would have fit stretched all the way out, but surely there was some position that would have worked.

But Alistair had never held someone like this before. Never. As far as he knew, he’d never _been_ held like this before, either. And if he let her go and wandered around and came back, was that the same? Or was he now snuggling someone who was asleep and hadn’t asked for it? Would it be better to put her in his bed? Would it then be wrong to get in bed with her?

He slept fitfully without answers, his muscles aching. As the morning light hit his face, he fell in and out of consciousness, trying to shift in any direction that wouldn’t knock him entirely to the floor.

“If you keep moving,” Bethany grumbled, “I’m going to set you on fire.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

Her eyes shot open. “Alistair!” His belly turned in an uncomfortable way as he wondered who she had thought was holding her all night. Her eyes scanned the room. “Has the fire gone out? Maker, is that _you_ producing all that heat? No wonder you’re always hungry.”

“Good morning to you, too,” he muttered.

She leaned back against him. “No it’s not,” she groaned, eyes closed again. “Can’t be,” she added, settling herself against his chest again and pulling the blanket over her head. 

He froze, not quite believing his luck. A whole night here and she could possibly want more of it? It would be unthinkable if it weren’t happening right now. His lower back be damned, she had had a difficult night. He could lie here a little longer with Bethany in his arms and let her get some rest. There were worse ways to spend a morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing process generally involves writing like three chapters simultaneously, and then they all sort of finish up simultaneously, and that's why we get so many updates in a row. I guess I could schedule them, but that kind of discipline is not really who I am as a person.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I torture Bethany, because I am the author and I'm allowed.

Shadowing Alistair was going well, Bethany thought. The non-Landsmeet was in two days, and she felt she could speak of many of the issues facing the country. Maybe she wouldn’t be an expert, but she would sound like someone with a bit of knowledge who cared and was ready to address the needs of the people. Despite Alistair’s doubts, she hoped that would be enough.

With her mornings occupied, she started taking her solitary walks in the afternoons. Anora had written how Cailan adored hunting in the Kings Forest, but Alistair showed no interest that she could see. The whole thing felt like it was meant for Bethany alone, though she never found any talking trees. It was all muddy now at this time of year, but she froze the ground before her and crunched her own path through it, warming her fingers with fire when needed.

It was good to waste mana wherever she could.

She was distracted on her way out of the castle, however, when she spotted Alistair in the training yard. There were plenty of knights everywhere, and guards, but Alistair, wearing only breeches and a shirt, was teaching footwork to a young boy of about ten. He must have been out there for a while—it was cold, and Bethany could see his breath as he panted and the sweat making his shirt stick to him. He looked the most relaxed she’d ever seen, grinning as the boy struck the training dummy. She lingered, unnoticed, admiring the ways the muscles in his back bunched as he swung a wooden sword in demonstration for the lad. The child mimicked him admirably, but when Alistair laughed, a foreign sound, she could not take her eyes off of him.

 _I want to lick all of the sweat off of his skin_. As soon as she thought it, she blushed, horribly, shocked at her own mind and still staring at him and thinking about her wedding night when he undressed in front of her and she did _not_ avert her eyes. She swallowed, which only made her realize her mouth had been _open_ as she stared. To make matters worse, one of Alistair’s knights had spotted her, Gordon, the man’s name was, and now he was walking over to her. He bowed at her while Bethany willed her cheeks to cool and her mind to settle.

“He’s a fine fighter, our king,” Gordon said. Though he did not wink, Bethany _felt_ the wink just the same. Maker, she had been _drooling_ over him. It just wasn’t fair of him to have big arms like that.

“Who is that boy?” she asked.

“He works in the kennels. Alistair has been scandalizing the local banns by threatening to make him his squire.”

“I shall have to see he gets sent over extra supper,” she said, “He’ll be very hungry after this.”

“The servants of the castle eat very well, your majesty.”

Alistair spotted her now, and he sort of waved with the sword, and Bethany sort of waved back like she was aware twenty sets of eyes just swiveled to her and twenty mouths began grinning. She was going to need to pray about this, or bathe in ice, or pray while bathing in ice. The chantry mothers who gave sermons in the Gallows had impressed upon them all how mages were naturally sinful and any urges they had doubly so. Could only lead to ruin. Alistair’s heart was unavailable, and though she could hear Isabela’s retort that that didn’t mean the rest of him had to be, it was. Absolutely. He had made it clear before they wed that sort of interest was unwelcome.

She licked her lips.

To her horror, he passed the sword to the boy and jogged over to her.

“Bethany,” he said with a smile, a real smile.

“Alistair.”

She didn’t know what to say to him, and he clearly hadn’t prepared anything either. He was actually _steaming_ in the chill air while Bethany gawped like she’d never seen a man before.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Gordon said helpfully.

“I was on my way to the library,” Bethany finally said, unsure of why she said it. It wasn’t true. 

Alistair blinked at her, then looked around as if to remind himself he was outside in the training grounds. “You must be terribly lost, then.”

“Perhaps you should escort her, your majesty,” Gordon suggested with a grin for Bethany. 

Alistair smiled, a genuine, true smile, and any objection Bethany might have had died in her throat. He offered one of his big, muscular, warm arms, still clad only in a shirt and his sweat, and Bethany took it, not certain she remembered how to breathe anymore. All eyes were on them as they left, and still more when they went inside.

“I hear you are to make the kennel-boy a squire,” she said just to be saying something.

Alistair shrugged. “He’s a good lad, but no. It isn’t done.”

“Why not? You were a kennel-boy and now you’re king. Perhaps he’ll have such a future.”

“ _Your_ children will be kings. Or queens.”

Her children. Not _their_ children, because he already had someone he cared about, and had decided on meeting her that he could never love her like that, had promised he would _never_ touch her, and he wanted _her_ to find someone, and it hadn’t bothered her, not really, until it did, a lot, and everyone _knew_ it because she had undressed him with her eyes in public and she was so _stupid_. And she really wished she weren’t holding onto his arm.

“So you’ll dangle the squireship in front of him and never act on it?” she accused.

“I… to make him a squire would anger half a dozen banns and an arl with similarly aged children.”

And Bethany was furious, now, though she couldn’t explain it. She wanted to shake him, to scream at him and wake him up and call him every name she could think of. She snarled a tight-lipped, “So?”

Alistair looked puzzled with this sudden chill in the hall and radiating off Bethany. She could see his breath again and, _Maker_ , she was losing control. He guided her through a door, the library forgotten. “So I anger them enough already with every other action I make,” he replied as Bethany looked around a room she had not yet been in. Bookshelves on the walls and little figurines, and now Alistair was on his knees trying to light the fire she could have roaring with a mere thought, so she kept examining the room, focusing on not freezing them both to death. 

“Like what?” she asked picking up a little stone warrior and replacing him on the shelf.

“Hm?”

She chanced a glance in his direction. His entire head was in the fireplace, still on his hands and knees with his rear facing her, and she wanted to… to… to _kick_ him probably. “Which decisions, Alistair?” she demanded, “Which ones have made them regret you so much?” There was a desk in the center of the room and a window behind it with thick curtains meant to hold back winter. This was his personal office, and the things on his desk were his things. A little golem and a dragon on the desk and shield mounted on the wall and these were the things he cared for.

The fire caught. “I’m soft on elves, never mind it was an elf that ended the Blight.”

“And you gave his cousin a bann and him an arling.”

“I gave the _Wardens_ an arling. They gave it to him.” He started lighting all the candles in the room, completely unbothered by how angry she was.

“Is that all?”

“I’m sure if you asked any lord of Ferelden they’d have a whole list prepared of my four years of failings.”

Certain everyone hated him, and the best reason he could come up with was rewarding the man who stopped the Blight? Being generous to his own people? So certain he had already disappointed in every way possible, and there was nothing he could do about it? About anything? Bethany’s knuckles were white with all the magic she wasn’t spewing across this room.

“Has it occurred to you that you are right and they are wrong?”

He stood by his window next to his thick curtains near his desk full of his little things and looked at her like he’d never seen her before. “What?”

Bethany took a step toward him. “That they are just greedy assholes shoving you around because you don’t shove back?”

“I can’t shove back. Civil war would destroy this country.”

“It would. And there’s not a chance of it happening. Not a single one of those men has an army enough to start a war. If banns called for their freemen to fight, the freemen would simply leave, and rightly, because calling for civil war so soon after a Blight ended by the current king would be madness. Not to mention the Bannorn all hate each other too much to band together to fight you.”

He was staring at her with shock, and she felt him shrinking and she couldn’t _stand_ it. He should _be_ large. He should _be_ himself.

“Redcliffe is on your side.” She was almost shouting now, and she couldn’t seem to stop. “South Reach is weak, Highever is weak, Edgehall is weak. Maker, Alistair, Gwaren would be your biggest liability, but Anora seems to actually like you.”

“Anora doesn’t like me. I’m not sure she likes anyone.”

“She owes everything she has to you. They all do. Every single one of them owes everything they have to _you_. The ones who sided with Loghain? They owe more than what they have. You could have beheaded them. Most would have. Another king would have seized their holdings and given them to their friends and family members, but you chose stability and forgiveness. They owe you _everything_. And that action, Alistair? It wasn’t weakness. It won support. Anora’s support. _Gwaren’s_ support.”

When Alistair backed up into his own curtain, she realized she had been pushing into his space, pushing him back until he had no farther to go.

“Why are you so angry with me?”

She didn’t mean to say it, but the words just came out. “Because you’re an _idiot!_ ”

And Alistair didn’t even seem to care. He didn’t even seem _surprised_ that she would say it. He shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”

That just made her angrier. “Well the next person who speaks to you that way is getting flogged on the Queen’s orders,” she shouted, her voice gone entirely shrilly. She swept out of the room, the fire guttering behind her.

~

Alistair stood in his office, cold now with the fire gone and just his damp shirt, his skin prickling into goosebumps. As he rubbed at his forearms, there was a knock on the door, and his uncle entered, no doubt having seen Bethany storm out after what ever that was. Fantastic.

“What is it?” he demanded sharply. He was in no mood to speak to anyone regarding anything at this moment. He wanted to plunge his head into ice water and then take a three-day nap.

“With the introduction of your wife to your people in two days, I felt it right to check in and make sure things are going well.”

“Things are going splendidly. Did you not see her on your way here? Singing my praises through the halls, I’m sure. Voice like a bird.”

Eamon sighed. “Small quarrels are to be expected in a new relationship—”

“Why are you here, uncle?”

Eamon took two steps farther into the room, steepling his fingers together. “The servants have told me she has not spent more than one night in your quarters. I’m sure you know this, but it can take more than one time to produce an heir.”

“Andraste preserve me,” Alistair muttered.

“If she is unwilling—”

Alistair cut in. “If I ever hear you speculate on my wife’s—” He swallowed and tried again, seething. “If I ever hear you _speak_ of her and imply _anything_ regarding that personal part of her life, I will throw you out of this castle.”

“Alist—”

“Any servants caught reporting to you on her nightly activities will be likewise sacked without ceremony.”

“Your maj—"

“Get. Out.” Alistair turned to face the window, his jaw set.

Eamon stood one moment longer—one moment more than he was allowed—then left.

~

After a rather morose bath, Alistair once again heard the quietest knock on his door. He rubbed a towel over his still-wet hair and invited Bethany in. She took two steps inside, her eyes on the floor, her hands clasped in front of her.

It was only a matter of time before Bethany realized what a disappointment he was. That he had made it almost an entire month was really a testament to her good nature in trying to see something in him that simply wasn’t there. Her analysis of the kingdom was… interesting. Something to think about, surely, though his thoughts kept drifting to his uncle, the unsaid threat in his words, and the passion in Bethany’s dark eyes as she shouted at him.

He still wasn’t certain why she’d had to shout all of it. She could have just said it.

“Have a seat,” he offered, gesturing at his sofa. He hoped she wasn’t here to shout again, but there wasn’t much he could do to prevent it.

She shuffled over, sitting at the very end, her ankles crossed and tucked neatly beneath her. Alistair sat with much less grace, stretching his legs before him. It wasn’t like she hadn’t figured out he was a bit of an oaf.

“I’m sorry for what I said in your office,” she said, and now _that_ was a switch. He scratched his head as she continued, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, and I shouldn’t have called you stupid.”

“I think you actually called me an idiot.” Bethany winced. “But like I said, you’re hardly the first.”

She turned to him now, and Maker, had she been _crying? Why?_ “And I hate that someone called you that and you _believed_ it. I hate that.”

“It’s okay. Beth—”

“It’s not okay. I stand by the rest of what I said. You were right, and they were wrong, and the next person to disparage you gets flogged or banished or whatever punishment I’m allowed to dole out. Even if it’s me. Even if it’s you.”

Alistair truly didn’t know how to respond to this. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Then it will have to bother me enough for the both of us.”

Alistair opened his mouth to say something, but for the life of him didn’t know what. He closed it again, trying to wrap his mind around anything that happened today. Bethany shouted at him, cried about it, and apologized. Perhaps it was best to leave it at that.

There was the other problem.

“Eamon said something…” Alistair wasn’t certain how to finish this sentence. But there was a niggling doubt now that he had not done such a fine job at this husband thing. That there were the wrong sorts of whispers in the halls and that Bethany would be blamed for any of it. For all of it. “He suggested…” He shook his head. “No. Forget what he suggested.”

He sighed. Just to bring it up was rude. Any solution would require… best not to think about what it would require.

“Are you worried about something?”

“Yes.”

“Can I help?”

He tried again. “When Anora failed to provide an heir, she was blamed. Not Cailan. Rumors of every sort.”

He had even believed them, unthinkingly, uncharitably, until recently.

“It’s only been a month,” Bethany replied, “No one could possibly think—”

“They know we don’t sleep in the same room. The servants talk.”

“Oh.”

“If it is assumed you are… uninterested…” Cold, frigid, unwilling, there were so many things they could call her, and every other word was worse. Maker, he couldn’t do this. No matter how he put it, he was asking her to throw herself at him so she wouldn’t get kicked out of her own home.

“You think we should put on a show.”

Alistair hung his head between his hands. “It wouldn’t hurt. But I would never ask you to—”

Bethany was staring very hard at the floor. “Sleeping in your bed every night hardly seems an option.”

That stung a little. Deserved, probably. “What we need are rumors.”

Bethany looked physically pained at her next sentence. “Maybe we should… practice then.”

“Practice?” There was a faint blush crossing her cheeks as she continued to glare at the floor.

“If we want rumors, we should get… caught.”

“Caught.”

“Kissing,” she clarified, her face fully red now.

“Oh.”

 _Oh._ She was suggesting they _practice._ Well, after their wedding, she knew he needed the practice. Any practice. If there was a weak part of this plan, and there were many, the weakest part was him. “Right.”

He stood up. It was better to do this standing than sitting, probably. Felt right. Bethany stood up, too, and she looked shorter than usual, an impossible distance away. She helped there, moving to stand just in front of him, not quite touching. She tilted her head up, too. Very thoughtful of her. She was a thoughtful person, he’d often thought.

 _Maker_.

He was just staring at her lips now. Pretty lips, he’d often thought. A nice shape. Suited her face. A satisfying shade of pink.

He realized he’d been rolling his shoulders like he was loosening up for battle, and he stopped that. Tried to figure out where they normally went.

 _If you wait any longer, she’ll think you find her disgusting._ That was not a tolerable thought.

He moved in.

Alistair had fought darkspawn and wolves, dragons and Archdemons, and he was always the first one in. Point him at a target, and he lunged. Took a fair beating, too, and wasn’t afraid of it. Perhaps, had he been wearing his armor, this would have been simpler, but he didn’t need to aim twice.

Unfortunately, his fighting style wasn’t known for finesse.

He bonked her nose. _That had to smart_. But Bethany grasped his jaw before he could pull away, and she held him still and kissed him.

Things really were easier when she took the lead.

Kissing was nice. _Really_ nice. Simple, even. Bethany pressed her lips to his— _nice lips,_ he’d often thought—and he pressed back, gently, and then they both pulled away. He opened his eyes again, and there she was in front of him, so beautiful he didn’t know what to say.

She rubbed her nose. “Maybe we could work on the approach?”

“Less head trauma. Got it.”

It was good they were practicing, because he would _not_ want anyone to see this. At least he hadn’t broken any bones with his first kiss, and he prayed to be so lucky with the second.

He took the hint from her and cradled her jaw in his thick, dumb hand, his thumb tracing over her cheek. He moved slowly this time, angling his whole body for it. Even with his careful, deliberate approach, Bethany moved to her tiptoes to meet him the rest of the way.

 _Oh_. They were moving a bit more this time, finding a sort of rhythm. His arm snuck around behind her to hold her closer. He had no idea what he was doing. He wasn’t sure how to breathe while doing this— _through your nose, you idiot—_ and Bethany’s hand was grasping at his shirt as they sort of swayed together. He pulled her plump bottom lip between his, the sudden urge to run his tongue across it. Nothing stopping him, so he did, drawing a sigh from her. Now that was a sound he could get used to.

His hand moved from her jaw to her hair, and this was not at all like his first kiss because it didn’t seem to be ending. Maker, he didn’t want it to. With each push and pull of her mouth, Alistair held her closer, tighter. When her lips parted, her tongue stroking his, he thought he might devour her whole.

There was a clatter of metal on stone and a ringing of little things all over the floor, and a maid hurriedly picking up her kit. Alistair released Bethany, who spun around to face the wall, cheeks red, and now a _second_ maid was helping the first and everyone’s eyes were looking anywhere but at each other.

Alistair’s shirt had come untied somehow and untucked for that matter, but as he watched the maids scurry away, Bethany still in a corner, her palms pressed to her cheeks, he knew he needed to leave. To go. He was just going to… go.

“Alistair?” he heard Bethany call from somewhere behind him. And he was being rude again, thoughtless, but if he kissed her again, he would never, ever stop. And that was not an option. For so, so many reasons.

“Think we… think we nailed it, Beth,” he said as he left the room.


	9. Chapter 9

The day of the Satinalia feast non-Landsmeet, Alistair awoke to find someone in his bed.

“Good morning, my prince.” Alistair shoved as hard as he could, but Zevran was faster. “Now, now,” he chided, perched on the bed with his finger in the air, “Is that a way to greet an old friend?”

Alistair rolled over and shoved his face in a pillow. “Wouldn’t know. I don’t have any.”

“Yes. An old friend might have mentioned that he’d gotten married.”

Alistair sighed. “Heard about that, did you?”

“The whole continent has heard about it by now.”

With a groan, Alistair got out of bed. Zevran or no, it would not do to sleep in today. Not with everyone arriving. Or, he thought with a look at Zevran, having already arrived. When he glanced out his window, he saw Bethany walking the grounds, heading out into the forest. Odd, that.

“That’s her,” he said to Zevran, who scrambled to catch a glimpse.

Alistair hadn’t spoken to her since he kissed her. That was a mistake and a half, the not speaking, not the kissing. The kissing was its own—well he really couldn’t decide. It had the desired effect, he was sure, but there were other effects. Guilt, that he’d done it at all. Then more guilt for not talking to her. Mostly a deep desire to do it again. Better to avoid her then, but that… well. Was a mistake.

Nothing new there.

“Do you think she’s happy?” Alistair asked, as if seeing a cloaked figure he’d never met disappear into a forest was enough for Zev to know.

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “There is only one way to tell, friend, and that would be to ask her.”

“I can’t do that,” Alistair replied. Of course she would say no, and then what would Alistair do? He couldn’t make this life any more palatable. One month in and she was shouting at him in hallways and he was hiding from her in his room. It was about what he expected, but he doubted _she_ had known. “I can’t figure out why she married me.”

“You can’t?” Zevran asked. “Well, once again, asking her might enlighten—”

“She’s not ugly or charmless,” he continued, “So she wasn’t in desperate need of a husband. Maker, she could have had anyone. And she’s not power-hungry or devious, so it doesn’t seem like she wanted a kingdom, though she does seem to have some skill for politics.”

“Go on.”

Alistair glared at him. He was not going to be tricked into praising his intelligent, thoughtful, beautiful wife and have Zevran find a way to throw those words back at him.

“Zev, if there is one thing I’ve learned in the past five years, it is that talking to me has never made _anyone_ happier.”

He turned to his bureau to find the feast-day clothes he was specifically ordered to wear. He’d like it better if they let him have a sword. It seemed wrong to go to a Landsmeet without a sword. And a shield. And enough armor to choke a dragon.

“Is Darrian here?” he asked.

“No. He’s in the Roads.”

“How is he?”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No.”

“You should write him, Alistair. He misses you.”

Alistair doubted that. “And you?”

“Oh, well, of course he misses me much more than you, but I saw him just recently.”

Alistair turned back to fussing with his buckles. He eyed Zevran. Despite his festive outfit, he was armed. Seemed unlikely they’d get his daggers from him for the feast.

“It’s a good color on you,” Zevran said, nodding to velvet wine-colored doublet. Alistair rolled his eyes. “If I may ask, forget your bride a moment, why did _you_ get married?”

That was simple. “Eamon asked me to.”

“Hm.”

“Is that not reason enough?”

“Not for most people.”

Zevran had that twitchy look on his face like he was thinking of exiting through a window. Alistair would prefer not to feel the chill. He would also prefer it if Zevran didn’t leave before the Landsmeet even started. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed and leaned back against the bed. “Oh, nothing. You just lost me a bet with Darrian, but he’s not here to know it.” Alistair rolled his eyes again and looked in the mirror. Perhaps he should call in his man to trim his beard. He always did it too short, though, so he should have called him in yesterday or the day before, really. He wondered if Bethany preferred a bushy face to a shaven one. He’d never thought to ask.

Zevran was staring at him.

“Come here, your majesty, give me a hug.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I have not seen you in months, and I want a hug.”

“What are you planning on doing to me?”

“I am planning on hugging you.”

Alistair dug his heels in. Did Zevran have another contract on his life? Not that he needed to be in close range to kill him—he’d already managed to find him sleeping and could have had it over and done with. But that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for him. Part of his brain wondered if he’d been more valuable as a rogue Warden or as King.

Maybe the hug was because Zevran felt guilty about his impending assassination.

Alistair narrowed his eyes.

“Alistair, you are so lonely, it has its own smell. A stench of solitude that wafts its way across the room. I fear if no one hugs you, you will die. But luckily, this is a sacrifice I am willing to make for an old friend.”

“I’m not lonely,” Alistair muttered as Zevran wrapped his arms around him.

“You are,” he said into his chest, “I’m sorry, Ali, but you are.”

He couldn’t relax into it. Since when did Zevran give hugs, anyway? Alistair once faced the end of everything, Archdemon nightmares every night, and Zevran had _never_ hugged him. He sort of patted his back now, avoiding the daggers strapped there. Zevran held it a minute too long, if Alistair was any judge. As soon as he was released, he quickly brushed off his doublet, not wanting to wrinkle the thing before the day had even begun.

And there was Bethany in his window again, walking out of the forest this time. He peered at her, stroking his beard, thinking.

“I kissed her,” he admitted.

“Is that all?”

“It’s an arranged marriage, Zev. It’s not like she’s here because she _wants_ to be.”

Zevran followed his gaze to the woman below. “But you want her to be.”

“She shouted at me.”

“Before or after you kissed her?”

“Before.”

“What did she say?”

“A lot of things. She called me an idiot.”

“You _are_ an idiot.”

“Careful. She also shouted the next person to call me that was getting flogged.”

Zevran smiled. “Who is doing the flogging, you or her?”

“Maker, I don’t know. I don’t keep a flogger on staff.”

“She’ll send me to the stocks then.”

“She’ll do it, too. She’s fearsome.”

“Oh?”

Alistair sighed. It all felt so hopeless. Why did Zevran keep smiling about it all? Did he not see what a mess Alistair had made of it? That it was always going to be a mess like this?

Zevran put a hand on his back.

“What a terrible burden to realize you are attracted to your wife.”

Alistair shot him a dark look. It _was_ a burden. And a mistake. It was all a lot easier when he thought she’d be some scary warmongering shrew.

“You’re allowed to love her, Alistair. There aren’t any rules against it.”

“I wouldn’t even know how,” he muttered, pushing himself away from the window. Time to get this whole thing started, he supposed.

# ~

The arguing in the Great Hall was getting louder. Bethany sat straight and tall as a sunflower, while Alistair felt himself slumping in his throne. And why not? They put him on it. He could sit however he wanted, even if he didn’t want to sit at all.

Bethany was wearing something far more complicated than usual, and it matched his own outfit. Of course. Eamon wanted to show them a united front. She had a crown on today, too. She’d need help getting out of that dress, and Alistair’s cheeks blazed as red as her gemstones as soon as he thought about that. Someone else’s job this time. Not his.

The pretense that this was a feast was lost immediately. Sure, there was food on tables, and introductions had gone smoothly enough even if they’d taken the whole bloody morning, but as soon as everyone sat down, they started shouting over each other just the same. All it would take would be one person to suggest it _become_ a Landsmeet, and then it was one. Stupid. Pointless.

Bann Ceorlic even stood up on his bench to make his addresses to everyone. Not even trying, that one. “You have put another commoner on the throne,” he hurled at Eamon, “Are we to be ruled thusly?”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. He loved how his blood suited until it didn’t. Just loved it.

“She is from the noble house Amell of Kirkwall,” Eamon replied.

“A house that is _dead.”_ Bann Oswald this time. Ugly git.

“A house that is lead by the Champion of Kirkwall who is now the most powerful leader of that city. A formidable ally.” Fergus’s support, as expected.

“So you have allied our country to the City of Chains? Splendid.” The new Arlessa of South Reach, Meiriona.

On and on it went. Alistair felt himself melting. Absolutely just melting. Were they going to criticize her hair next? Her shoes? Her table manners?

To his horror, Bethany stood up to address them all. “It’s true. My older sister is the scion of House Amell of Kirkwall, and I am nobility only of the Marches on my mother’s side. But my name is not Amell. It is Hawke, and I daresay you’ll find Hawkes littering Ferelden’s countryside. Or, perhaps, we did—before the Blight. I was born in Lothering, and I happily spent my first twenty years there. My twin brother, Carver Hawke, fought with King Cailan’s forces at Ostagar before he died trying to save my mother and I as we fled to my mother’s ancestral home. In Kirkwall, I was greeted with chains and gates and I was considered nothing more than a refugee for years. Trash to be thrown back into the sea. I think you will find that story very familiar across the Marches.”

The nobles, for the first time in Alistair’s memory, had come to a dead quiet while Bethany spoke. She held them captivated, which was something he had not thought possible. He couldn’t seem to look away either, a passion burning in her eyes, the jewel at her throat throwing light across the room.

“Returning to Ferelden has been like coming home, and I hope I can lead by example for our many displaced citizens who have a home here. I also hope they will receive as warm a welcome as I have as we continue to rebuild and overcome the devastation left by the Blight. I am grateful to my husband, as I’m sure we all are, that it was not worse.”

She took her seat again, and the murmuring did start up again as it always did. There was an unfamiliar tone to it, however, that Alistair thought could actually have been approval. Bethany was looking at him with an expression he did not understand, eyes wide, lips parted, breaths coming in sharp, and he realized she was _nervous._ Maker, it hadn’t shown. He placed his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze, which she gladly returned.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, though he couldn’t be sure she heard it. He squeezed her hand again, and he did not let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D: Mark me. Alistair marrying is just him further losing himself to his uncle’s bullshit.  
> Z: You never know. It could be good for him. Maybe he wanted it.  
> D: What would Alistair do with a wife? Stare at her from afar?  
> Z: then come clean up the mess you made  
> D: short of putting him out of his misery, I don't think there's anything I can do  
> Z: I’m going to go.  
> D: Would have let Eamon die if I knew he was this much of a prick.  
> ~  
> Zevran is way too handsome for this. Unfortunately for him, he's not done dealing with nonsense. 
> 
> Good news, we are one chapter away from actual communication more or less.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: More alcohol and drunkenness in this chapter. On the flip side, the merest glimmer of communication happens.

The non-Landsmeet did not become a true Landsmeet after all, for which Bethany was grateful. Though, she supposed not having a vote to kick her out was sort of like having a vote to keep her in. It was a relief either way.

She was on her feet before long, the less formal introductions beginning as nobles calculated whether to ingratiate themselves to her. She was not going to have time to eat today. She listened politely as it was suggested repeatedly she tour the Marches to recruit their people home, something she knew she could never do, though perhaps she could enlist her sister to help. One bann kissed her hand and told her he had fought beside Carver and Lea, and for a moment her heart froze in her chest. The Arlessa of South Reach complimented her on her dress, her hair, her shoes, and even her choice of husband, which all felt rather a lot as Bethany had chosen none of it, but she smiled the same.

She was most interested in the elf trying to catch her eye, though she had to make it through twelve people before she could finally be introduced. “Shianni, your majesty,” she said with a bow, “Bann of the alienage. I’m sorry I missed your wedding, especially if the speeches were as eloquent as they were today.”

“Yes, I should have liked to have met you, especially as someone who lives so close.”

“Ah, well, we’re used to having our invitations ‘lost’ in the alienage. Those human couriers, so unreliable.”

Bethany frowned. “We’ll have to hire some non-humans then, I think. A bann in the alienage might require her own dedicated bird for correspondence. But there were no problems with today’s feast?” 

Shianni grinned. “His majesty rode into the alienage two days ago and delivered the invitation himself. Said he was tired of them getting ‘lost.’”

“Did he?” That didn’t sound much like Alistair she knew, though she did like how it sounded. It was the sort of thing he might mention thinking of doing before saying why he couldn’t do it. Over where she’d left him, he was smiling with a man she didn’t know. Another elf. Curious. “I know his decision to make you bann was controversial…”

“That’s putting it mildly. Wiped out all his goodwill from the Blight in one swoop. Impressive, really. He still hasn’t named an Arl of Denerim, which means the only nobility in town are his majesty and me, and not everyone is thrilled about that.”

“And they didn’t invite you to our wedding,” Bethany deduced. She glanced over again to see the man had thrown his arm around Alistair’s shoulders. They were both laughing and… close. Warm. Intimate.

“Nope. They sure didn’t. Something’s gotten into his majesty, though. Didn’t expect to see him in the alienage without Darrian around. And I haven’t seen him laugh like _that_ since… Not since the end of the Blight, probably.”

They both watched him for a moment as Bethany’s shoulders started slumping. She _had_ been standing for so long. She turned her attention back to Shianni. “Why haven’t I seen you at court?”

“You mean court that Alistair holds once every… whenever he thinks about it? Court where he surrounds himself with people he hates all telling him what to do at once? That court?” Bethany grimaced. Maybe some of Alistair’s feelings regarding his own talents at being king were somewhat correct. Shianni lowered her voice. “Tell you what. You start holding court with him, or even on your own, and I’ll be there. Your staunchest ally. I look forward to seeing what you can do.”

“You don’t even know me yet. I could be awful. I could be worse than him.”

Shianni laughed. “He’s not that bad though, is he? Anyway, I have a pretty good sense of these things. Have to, as a ‘noble’ elf in _this_ city.”

Bethany’s eyes drifted back to Alistair. He was whispering in the man’s ear now, and they were laughing again, and calling for more ale, and Alistair clapped his hand on the man’s back and Bethany felt like all the air in the room had disappeared.

“Who is that man with Alistair?” she asked in the lightest tone she could.

“That is Zevran Arainai, your majesty. Hero of the Fifth Blight and general menace.”

“Menace?”

“With a face like that? He leaves broken hearts behind everywhere he goes.”

Bethany could believe it. She felt her own heart doing something altogether terrible as she watched them.

It made sense. Someone who knew him from before, someone he couldn’t marry, someone who wouldn’t give him an heir. Someone who made him smile and laugh and relax, even in a hall full of people he hated. Bethany would give anything to have someone like that.

“I should introduce myself to a man who ended the Blight,” she murmured. Shianni bowed again, and Bethany started her slow progression across the room, her feet feeling like lead with every step. It gave her time to affix the smile to her face.

“Bethany!” Alistair grinned, and she could tell he’d had a lot of ale already. “My beautiful wife, allow me to introduce you to Zevran, Hero of the Fifth Blight.”

Zevran got out of his seat and bowed deeply. “A pleasure, your majesty.”

“I’m delighted to finally meet you.”

“Finally? You have been waiting for me?”

Bethany felt herself blushing in spite of herself. “Oh, yes. Alistair has told me… well, not a _lot_ about you, but—”

Zevran lit up. “Oh? Alistair? Praising my talents on the battlefield? Did he tell you all the times I saved his royal behind? And it’s not a bad one, is it? You are welcome for this service to your kingdom I have provided.”

Alistair leaned across Zevran to block him from Bethany. “Never happened. Not even once. Not a single time. Don’t remember any.” He looked over his shoulder to address Zevran. “Certainly not telling her any.”

“He tried to have me killed you know.”

Alistair nodded to his mug. “I did. I stand by that.”

Bethany laughed despite how she felt. She couldn’t even identify how she felt. Alistair grinned at her sideways, and the fluttering in her stomach was not at all helpful. She _liked_ seeing him like this, loose and… well not carefree, but with fewer cares. Smiling. At her.

And it hurt. A lot.

“So your brother and sister fought in the Blight, but you didn’t?” Zevran asked.

“No. I’m rubbish with a blade, and we didn’t want to leave my mother alone. I can knit warm winter mittens if you like, milk a goat, pluck a chicken, though I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook, either. Lucky for Alistair that the castle employs cooks.”

“Yes,” Zevran said slowly, “Alistair is lucky indeed. And also a terrible cook, if you must know.”

“I am a fine cook,” Alistair protested, “You’re just a terrible eater.”

“You’ll have to have him cook for you, your majesty. Make him eat those words, because you won’t be eating his stew.”

“Hey,” Alistair grumbled, pretending to pout. 

“I look forward to it,” Bethany replied, grinning at Alistair’s wounded look, “And now I leave you.”

“Stay!” Alistair said, a hand on her wrist, “Have a drink with me and Zev.”

“I’m afraid I’m rather tired,” she lied, “But please, you two have fun. You deserve it.”

Bethany almost felt as if she was floating when she returned to her quarters. She was happy for Alistair. Truly. Zevran seemed… fun. Handsome. She hoped he had a wonderful night. She would not be having a wonderful night, but that was a different matter entirely.

# ~

Bethany started at the knock on her door. Nobody ever knocked on her door at this hour. By rights she should have gone to sleep, but she found she couldn’t. She wrote a letter to her sister, then tore it up, tried again, tossed that one in the fire, and wrote a third one to Isabela this time. Then she’d spent a good deal of time staring at a shadow on her wall, flicking her fire out and back on again, and now there was a knocking. And… giggling? Men, for certain.

She opened the door slowly to reveal Zevran, grinning, and Alistair, slung over his shoulder, somehow, decidedly not grinning.

“Apologies, your majesty,” Zevran said, “But I may have led your husband to over-imbibe this evening.”

Alistair just sort of groaned, and Bethany believed them. It did not explain why Zevran was pushing his way into her room, though.

“Which side of the bed is his?” Zevran asked, “Never mind, this side is closer.”

He heaved Alistair onto her bed, Alistair helping not at all, just sort of flopping, and Bethany moved to shove his legs up for him, even if she wasn’t certain why. Alistair had never slept here. How did Zevran even know it was her room?

“Don’t you want to take him to _your_ bed?” she asked as Zevran began pulling Alistair’s boots off.

“Maker, no. As I remember from the Blight, he snores after drinking.”

“But I thought…”

Zevran, boots in hand, was grinning again, lopsided and thoughtful. “What did you think, your majesty?”

“After so long a time apart, don’t you _want_ to… share a bed with him?” she asked as delicately as she could.

“And have you been imagining us sharing beds often?”

Bethany’s face was full red now, she felt it, and while she had _not_ been thinking of that, _now_ she was, and Zevran was laughing at her, full throated and Alistair was resituating himself on _her_ bed and none of this made sense.

“The way the two of you—” she tried to explain, “I just assumed, I mean I thought—”

“That I was his lover?”

Bethany nodded.

“It would be quite the romantic story. I can see it now, two hearts on opposing sides, one hired to kill the other in the middle of the Blight no less, swordfights, forgiveness, confessions of love by the campfire, an exchange of tokens, an incredibly handsome face or two… a romantic story indeed.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Not at all, my lady, that story is a good one and dear to my heart. It’s the epilogue that is new to me. Alistair is made king, unable to marry his love because of race, class, profession, and gender. But they meet, when they can, drink too much and cavort in public and make certain queens very jealous.”

“I’m not—”

Zevran patted her back, not unkindly. “Alas, it is only a story. We are not lovers and never have been.”

Bethany slumped. “I had never seen him relax like he does with you. He looked happy. I was… glad for him. To have that.”

Zevran raised his eyebrow, but if he did not believe her, he chose not to say. “My queen, it is always easier to pour a drink when the keg has already been tapped.”

She looked at Zevran, then at Alistair who was, indeed, snoring, then back at Zevran. “Well if not you then who? You must know. He won’t tell me.”

“What makes you think he has a lover somewhere?”

“Well he said… before we got married, he said… I can’t quite remember the wording now, but it was pretty clear that… that he…” Bethany gave up. _Nothing_ felt clear right now. He _had_ said, hadn’t he?

“I will help you. Not only does Alistair not have a lover, he has _never_ had a lover.”

“That can’t be true.” Both of Zevran’s eyebrows were raised now as he stared her down. “How could that be true?”

For the first time this evening, Zevran seemed at a loss for words.

“He told me he wanted me to find a lover and produce an heir.” That she was certain on.

Zevran said a lot of things very quickly in a language Bethany did not know, running his hand through his hair and beginning to pace. “He said this to you when?” he demanded.

“Right before we married.”

Zevran nodded, rubbing his chin. Then he strode over to Alistair and gave him a hard smack on the arm, loud enough to echo through the room.

“Mrrmph. Why?” Alistair groaned.

“You know why,” Zevran hissed, “And you’ll forget in two minutes anyway.”

“You really are like siblings then,” Bethany sighed.

“Yes, his much better-looking, much better-with-a-blade older brother. And now I leave you two to figure it out.” He muttered something else that sounded like “much too handsome for this.”

“Figure what out?”

“Good luck, my queen,” he said with a deep bow, and then he was gone.

Alistair was asleep again, but he woke a little when Bethany crawled onto her side of the bed. “Beth?” he asked, shifting toward her. It reminded her of how Lea’s mabari used to wiggle across the bed for a pet. She ran her hands through his hair, and he sighed happily. She couldn’t quite tell if he was asleep again, though he wasn’t snoring, so she asked, “Alistair, why did you tell me to take a lover?”

Without opening his eyes, he responded with a tiny grunt, somewhere deep in his throat. “Need an heir.”

“Why couldn’t it be you?”

He grimaced, his brow furrowing. “Never work.”

She ran her fingers over his face, tracing the wrinkles until he was no longer frowning. “Why not?”

He took longer to respond this time. “’Cause it’s me.”

Was that all? What did that even mean? She held his jaw now, stubble tickling her palm, trying to get up the nerve to ask her next question. His breath slowed. His face slackened further. Bethany swallowed. 

“What if I wanted it to be you?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re going to be miserable in the morning,” she told him, “an absolute wreck.”

He responded only by resuming his earlier snoring.

# ~

Alistair woke up feeling miserable. An absolute wreck.

He should have killed Zevran when he had the chance.

He was not in his room. He blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, his head on an unfamiliar pillow, his body lying across an unfamiliar bed, and with a groan, he turned to the side to find Bethany, sitting at her vanity across the room, brushing her hair.

Oh, he should have _killed_ Zevran when he had the chance.

He was still wearing his clothes from the night before, wrinkled and not at all fresh, which meant, thankfully, the only thing that probably happened was him making an absolute fool out of himself. Nothing new, and yet still completely awful.

Bethany was watching him.

“I hope I didn’t—” he started. Bethany raised one eyebrow. “Maker, I don’t remember how I got here.”

He ran a hand over his face, and when he got the courage to peek between his fingers, Bethany was grinning. She put down her brush but didn’t say anything. He would have liked it if she said something.

He tried to remember. What could have possibly driven him to end up here? All the things he promised he wouldn’t reveal to Zevran were easily exposed with a bit of alcohol and a nudge or two. Okay, a _lot_ of alcohol and no nudges at all. He could remember gushing loudly, extensively to Zevran just how much he liked her, half an hour dedicated only to the shininess of her hair, but he could not quite piece together the last actions of what was all together an ill-conceived evening.

“You… aren’t going to tell me, are you?” he accused mildly.

Her silence as she crossed the room to the kettle was answer enough.

“You aren’t throwing things at me, and I’m not on the floor, so I couldn’t have said or done anything _too_ horrible.”

She smiled again. “How’s your head?” she asked, pouring tea.

It was a relief to hear her speak. “Like I spent the night getting bludgeoned by genlocks.” Which would have been altogether less embarrassing.

“This will help.” He sat up to take the teacup from her. She watched him take a sip, leaning against her dresser, arms crossed.

Bless, it _did_ help. “What’s in this?” he asked, the headache already dimming to a light throb.

Bethany shrugged. “Tea. Some elfroot. Not much else. Always made my sister feel better after a rough night.”

“You should give the recipe to the cooks. And the healer. Probably everyone in Thedas could use it.”

Bethany said nothing, watching him sip.

“You’re really not going to tell me how I got here, are you.”

“I’m less concerned with the how, which I imagined involved a lot of tripping over you own feet, and more concerned with the why.”

Well now she was just being cryptic. He put the cup aside, feeling much more able to get up and get out. He really wished he was having this conversation with a change of clothes. Maybe after a bath. With fresher breath for certain. Or… no. He really wished he were not having this conversation at all.

“I thought a lot about what was said last night—” Shit. He racked his stupid brain. Stumbling through the halls, Zevran had asked him which room was Beth’s, and he’d answered him truthfully like an idiot. And that was where his memory ended. “—and I think I’ve come to a conclusion I probably should have realized earlier.”

He was going to throw him in the stocks. He’d tell Bethany that Zevran called him an idiot yesterday, and she would throw him in the stocks _for_ him. Problem solved.

“You like me,” she said, grinning at him.

What had he said to her? What had he said? “What did I say?”

She smiled wider. “It’s alright, Alistair, I like you.”

Oh. He did not return her smile. “Why?”

“What do you mean why? Why do you like me?”

“Well because you’re… you’re _you._ You’re—”

She cut him off. “And you’re _you._ ”

Well that was nonsense. “Right.” Bethany’s smile was fading as he continued to scrutinize her. “Sorry, did you say you like me?”

She let out a dainty little frustrated laugh. “ _Yes._ ”

He scratched his head. “Not that you want to… smite me?” Bethany glared at him now. “Or fight me?” he suggested.

“You think I said, ‘I fight you.’”

“You… pike me?” he tried.

That won him an almost-laugh.

“You strike me,” he said with a finger pointed at her, “Now that is a sentence. ‘Alistair, I strike you.’”

“And not even close to what I said.”

“You could hike me, but I’m not exactly sure what that would mean.”

“I’m not sure you understand what I meant when I said the very normal sentence of ‘I like you.’”

“That’s not normal,” he muttered, “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“I kind of figured that out. Not that that means they didn’t, though. Lots of people like you. And I like you.”

And now his cheeks were burning. She just kept saying it. “There you go again.”

“I’ll like you more when you are bathed and your teeth are clean.” His… teeth? Bethany’s gaze dropped to his lips as she pressed hers together. Oh. _Oh._

“Right. Right. Listen, I am awake, am I?”

“And before the noon bell even, which is good because I think you’re meant to be hunting any minute.”

“Oh _fuck_.”

Alistair pushed himself out of the bed and toward the door. Oh, he hated hunting. He hated hangovers and he hated nobility and he hated the stupid breeches he had to wear and all the terrible hats everyone put on for these occasions. And he hated moving, at all, because while Bethany’s tea was helpful, it didn’t exactly undo a night of terrible decisions.

But he didn’t hate Bethany.

“You like me?” the words popped out one more time as he stood halfway in the hall, ducking under the doorframe.

“I like you,” she replied, “A lot.”

 _A lot._ Well a _lot_ was quite different from just liking him. _A lot._ How in the world was he supposed to go slaughter some poor animal for sport while he was thinking about how she liked him _a lot_?

Maker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bethany: I am going to make him uncomfortable on purpose.


	11. Chapter 11

Bethany had lied. Alistair had hours before he was to be hunting with assorted vassals, but he really needed that bath. And she was going to have to find a new way to get it through his very thick head that she actually liked him. Her preferred way required him to wash his mouth of day-old ale, so sending him out was the only thing to do.

She also wanted some time to think that didn’t include him snoring on her bed. It had been hard enough to sleep with him so close. She didn’t get much of it in the end, a few hours here and there. Maybe when he got back he wouldn’t look so stunned and horrified when she told him she liked him. Or maybe she could think of new things to say that would stupefy him.

She had arranged to have tea with Anora to thank her for all her helpful letters while the more aggressive of the nobility were chasing after deer or druffalo or whatever lived in the forest. Bethany had never encountered much wildlife in the kingswood, but she supposed shooting blasts of ice everywhere scared them all off. Nice birdsong, though. She hoped they wouldn’t go after the birds.

Anora ended up leading Bethany to the disused solar, more familiar with the castle still. Bethany wondered if she was staying in the same room she had before, and how odd all of this must be for her now. If she was sad or annoyed or anything, it didn’t really show.

The servants poured the tea, and other than “thank you for all your kind letters,” Bethany had not considered what else she might say to her. Which was really quite stupid, because this was an opportunity to learn from an actual expert, and she had been spending all her time thinking about Alistair and Zevran and then Alistair again.

Anora was watching her closely. “And how has your first month of marriage been?”

“It has been…” What was the diplomatic way to answer that? Surely no one would believe the first month of an arranged marriage went completely smoothly. There were so many misunderstandings, but Bethany’s thoughts landed on Alistair, head in the doorway, hair a mess and that stupid, confused look on his face. “Not without its challenges,” she finished, though she could feel herself smiling.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Bethany’s teacup clattered against its saucer. “Well he is my husband,” Bethany replied defensively.

“I think we both know he is only your husband in one very fragile sense of the word.”

“And I’ve only known him a month,” Bethany retorted. Anora very slowly raised one eyebrow. Bethany swallowed. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“I would if I had any hope of him believing a word I say. Unfortunately, I think he would only believe you. So I urge you to tell him as soon as possible for both your sakes. Your jobs are difficult, and love in any of its forms will make it easier.”

“He doesn’t… I don’t think he would believe me either,” Bethany told her. She’d hate to find out how he would respond. Liking him seemed difficult enough. But if she told him she loved him? He might just throw her out. Or would he just leave? Wander right into the harbor and never come back? Sink like a stone. Better not to risk it. Maybe someday, when they were old and gray, she could tell him. For now, she could just like him, a _lot_ , and that would be good enough.

“Has he told you much about how he was raised?” Anora asked.

“Other than sleeping in the kennel with the dogs, no.” Anora raised an eyebrow, her teacup pausing in the air for just a moment in its trajectory to her lips. Bethany’s stomach sank through the floor as she realized that was not common knowledge and _not_ something she should be spreading around. Maker, she should have slept more. This was _not_ going well. 

“I’ve only heard about his upbringing secondhand myself.” Anora frowned at the rug and tapped her foot once. “That detail is new.” She uncrossed her ankles and recrossed them again. “Well, it does not change what I wanted to impress upon you. He was not raised to be king. They tucked him away, protected him, kept him available should the need arise, but they did not prepare him for his. I think you will have ascertained by now it has been very hard on him, and because of how he was raised, he has very few allies.”

“Do you consider yourself an ally of his?” Bethany asked.

“Alistair has no reason to trust me.” She paused, reconsidering. “I may have given him reason _not_ to trust me. I don’t regret what I did, but I do think it painted his view of me. So while Alistair may not consider me an ally, I consider myself his ally.”

Bethany didn’t know what to say to this. Thankfully, Anora wasn’t done speaking. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about Cailan and me—”

Bethany shook her head, about to lie. “I don’t—”

Anora held up a hand to silence her. “I know what they say, and I have done little to correct the record. Cailan is dead, and nothing I do now can change that. But I loved him. How I loved him is between me and Cailan. And Alistair…” Anora shook her head, her impenetrable expression slipping for just a moment into something bordering on fondness. “He looks just like him. Talks like him, too. And I don’t just mean the voice. Idealistic, _young._ ”

“Idealistic?” Bethany asked. Alistair seemed jaded, apathetic even. Tired. Cynical.

“Idealistic,” Anora repeated, “That’s why he hurts so much when the world disappoints him.”

Bethany was starting to feel very uncomfortable, though she couldn’t quite say why. There were histories here, Alistair’s history which she suddenly felt she knew almost nothing of beyond the Blight. “Forgive me, but why are you telling me all of this? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I’m not sure I understand.”

“Call it concern for Alistair. And for you.”

“For me?”

Anora set her teacup and saucer to the side and lowered her voice. “You are new and also don’t have many allies. And you also weren’t raised for this.”

“Are you offering to be _my_ ally, Anora?”

“You have impressed me.”

Bethany didn’t _feel_ impressive. She felt as if she was barely keeping up with this conversation, revealing too much and knowing too little. “The other day Alistair asked me if I should have ladies following me around everywhere I go,” she admitted, “I have no idea.”

“Do you want ladies in waiting to follow you around?”

“I don’t think so.”

Anora smiled. “Then don’t have them.”

The door to the solar banged open, a young man standing in it, panting. Staring at his feet and twisting his hands, he managed to get out, “Apologies, your majesties, but the King has been injured on his hunt.”

Bethany was on her feet immediately. “Show me.”

She ran through the castle toward the stables, not pausing to apologize as she shouldered visitors and servants in the abnormally crowded corridors. She heard the surprised grunts and angry comments, but she didn’t care.

There was a crowd gathered, and Bethany wagered Alistair was in the center, so she pushed her way through everyone, her hair getting pulled and her skirts getting trod on with mud, gasps from scandalized lords to see her shoving people. She broke through to the center and took deep, calming breaths.

Alistair was on his feet, so it couldn’t be that bad. His right arm was slung over Gordon, the other tucked close. Even from here, Bethany could see it was broken. But that was the worst of it as far as she could tell from here. Once she was certain she had a handle on her breathing, she ran to him.

“I told them not to bother you,” he groaned. He and Gordon were slowly moving toward the castle, everyone moving out of the way for _them_ , and Bethany took up Alistair’s other side now, trying to get a look at him.

“What happened?”

“My mare saw a scary flower and threw me,” he grunted. Gordon laughed, but Bethany couldn’t find a single funny thing about this.

“Has someone looked him over?” Bethany demanded of Gordon.

“I already took a health potion,” Alistair replied.

“You could have internal damages. You could be bleeding and not even know it. Where’s the castle healer? They should be here.”

“He’ll meet me in my quarters, I’m sure, but other than setting this arm and giving me another potion I’m not sure what he’ll accomplish.” 

“He’s not a mage?” she asked, trailing behind them. “What if it had been your neck? Maker, Alistair.”

Alistair paused now, releasing Gordon with a nod and rolling his shoulder. “I’ve had worse, Beth. Much worse than this.”

She looked at his arm, bent wrong and held tightly to his body. She could have fixed it in minutes. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t allowed. “You had a healer then, a proper one. I’m writing the Circle. They can station someone here.”

“If you like.”

Bethany stood in the corner or Alistair’s quarters, her hands behind her back while the healer checked him over. Alistair shouted when the man set his arm, following it up with a heartfelt curse. And then he was given another potion, and the man left. Bethany didn’t trust herself not to heal Alistair herself, so she stayed out of reach, the corners of her mouth tugging downward.

“You’ve never broken a bone before?” Alistair asked. He sat up now, stripped to his undershirt so the healer could look him over. Not that he did a thorough enough job in Bethany’s opinion. Completely lacking. Alistair leaned back on the headboard, propping up his newly set arm on a stack of every single one of his pillows and grimacing just the same.

Bethany shook her head. Carver had broken his arm when they were children, falling out of a tree, and her father taught her how to heal that night while he cried. Even after meeting Anders, Lea always brought her injuries to Bethany, old habits, familiar hands. But she’d always stood in the back on the battlefield, or hadn’t gone at all, and had rarely suffered an injury worth speaking of.

“I’ve broken loads of bones.” This did nothing to settle her. She could _feel_ the cracks of healed bones under her fingers, the weakness that never quite mended no matter how strong the magic.

“You fell off a _horse,_ Alistair. It could have stepped on you. It could have killed you.”

“Don’t tell me in addition to thunder you’re afraid of horses,” Alistair tried, “Did a horse once threaten your family? All the oats or he’d start kicking.”

“There are no horses in here,” she muttered.

“Just a horse’s ass.”

Bethany crossed the room to him now. “Is it really just the arm?”

“Would you worry less if I said yes?”

“No.”

“Then my side is bruised to hell.”

He gestured toward his right to where his shirt was tattered. Must have hit something pretty hard if it tore all the way down to his undershirt. “Did you hit a tree on your way down?” she asked. She fingered a hole in his shirt, the skin scraped underneath, but not too deeply. The bleeding had already stopped, though the bruising would probably get worse.

“That sounds right.”

“Did you hit your head?” she asked sharply.

“No.”

“May I see?” She checked him now, old habits and all, running her hand gently through his hair, searching for a bump. He closed his eyes to it, leaning toward her as her fingers prodded over the top of his head, around his ears, to the back by his neck, and found nothing.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked quietly.

Bethany had not yet released him, fingers curling behind his head. It was such a short distance between them, and her heart was still thudding in her chest with all of it. She hadn’t expected to be _so_ afraid of losing him, not after such a short time, but she was. He was watching her with those summer-colored eyes, and she saw the sudden recognition on his face, gaze flicking to her lips, smile vanished, only anticipation on his face now. “Yes,” she said, leaning in so close his nose brushed against hers.

She kissed him, holding back all of her fears and her irritation at not being able to help, keeping it light, even if she wanted to press her entire body into his. Alistair sighed into it, his hand finding her hair, and she tried to keep it delicate if not chaste, her lips catching just the edge of his, moving slowly, her tongue brushing over his lips with the barest of pressure in an effort at control. It was Alistair who leaned forward to press harder, to chase her, to pull her in, and Alistair who broke the kiss with a hearty curse and a gasp. Bethany opened her eyes to find him half laughing, half groaning as he rearranged his broken arm on the bed.

“Sorry,” Bethany breathed, “Sorry. That was stupid of me.”

Alistair grunted again as he placed his arm on top of the pillows again. “Are we allowed to call people stupid now?” he asked through gritted teeth, “Because _I_ fell off a horse.”

“Hush.” She grabbed one of the potions the healer had left, sniffing it to confirm it was a fairly common pain reliever. “I’d ask you how much pain you’re in if I thought you’d tell me the truth.” She glanced at him, but his eyes were squeezed tight, jaw clenched. So he was done pretending. Good. He looked three shades paler than he should. “If you drink this, it will help, but it will make you fall asleep pretty quickly. Hope you didn’t have afternoon plans.”

He took the potion from her, his fingers lingering on hers for a few moments longer than they needed to. “Only to dance with you at the ball tonight, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Then I have good news. I can’t dance. Never learned.”

He smiled and drank down the potion, then groaned again as he realized he needed one of his pillows for his head so he could sleep, and he’d need to move his arm again. Bethany helped him, leaning over him to brace his arm so it wouldn’t be jostled _too_ badly as he sorted himself. He scooted himself down the bed, and she placed the pillow beneath his head for him.

“You don’t have to stay here with me, you know,” he said with a yawn.

“I know. But I like you.”

“A lot,” he finished.

Bethany rolled her eyes. “A lot,” she conceded. To make her point, she smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead, and when she stood up again, his eyes were closed. Alistair started to drift off. Good. She needed him asleep so she could check his organs. She left him to go lock the door.

“There’s one more thing, Beth,” he said, blinking himself awake. She returned to his side. “I forgot. In the woods we found… signs of an apostate.”

Bethany felt her veins turn to ice. “Oh.”

“Could be more than one, I don’t know. But you can’t go on your walks out there anymore. Not without a guard. I sent word to the chantry to send over some templars. Root out the apostate and accompany you if you need it. Keep you safe.”

Bethany suddenly felt she couldn’t breathe at all. “Oh,” she said again.

Templars coming here. To find her. Trapped in the castle.

Alistair’s eyes weren’t quite focusing as he fought off the potion, and she counted herself lucky because she couldn’t quite hide the panic, her own eyes stinging with it. “Promise me you won’t go out there alone.”

“I… I promise.”

“Good.” His eyes fell closed.

Her hands trembling, Bethany couldn’t do any healing now. She had to move. She couldn’t stay here. The room felt too small. She wouldn’t be trapped. She stumbled toward the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a version of events from Alistair's perspective that is like 20% steamier. Basically at one point, I couldn't figure out Beth's positioning and I was like, lmao, what if she straddled him, he'd die. So then I wrote that. It's here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218707


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bethany has a panic attack

_Careless._

_Stupid._

_Reckless._

One month in Ferelden and templars had been called to sniff her out. To hunt her. To take her back.

She’d gone twenty years without being found, not even suspected until those last months in Kirkwall. Even then, she’d turned herself in. They hadn’t found her. She’d made it easy.

Now they were going to find her.

Locked in the castle and it was _her fault._ At least she could only hurt herself this time. No family to speak of to be torn apart. Mages couldn’t marry or be queen, so all of that would just be nullified. Like it never happened. And Alistair… he’d forget her, locked in a tower by Lake Calenhad with his old nightmares.

One more disappointment.

She walked the corridors in a daze, no destination in mind because she just promised Alistair she wouldn’t _leave._ Maker, she couldn’t leave. She couldn’t run.

Her brother’s pendant hung heavy around her neck, and she wondered where it would go when they took it from her. If she could send her things back across the Waking Sea so Lea could hold onto her memory. If they would let her keep anything this time, anything at all.

Or maybe they would kill her on the spot for running.

She reached a door at the end of a hallway and turned around, nowhere to go, nowhere to _be._ She was stuck. Stuck until they found her. He said he wanted them to _guard_ her. Follow her around and watch and listen and they weren’t even here yet and she could feel their eyes on her.

She wasn’t certain where she was when she heard a slap followed by muffled speaking. Her feet were leading her that way anyway, so she kept going. Another slap. Anora’s voice. “And that was for me.” 

She passed the room, her eyes unfocused, not even considering why Anora might be slapping someone, continuing on her mad push through corridor, her hand on the wall to steady her.

“Your majesty?” Eamon’s voice. She ignored it.

“Your majesty!” Anora now, dashing out to follow her. “What’s happened? Is it Alistair? Is he—”

“He’s f—” Bethany took a breath and tried again. “He’s fine.”

Her breaths weren’t coming right now that she’d stopped walking. Too fast but not enough. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t leave and there wasn’t air enough in the castle for her and she couldn’t—

“Come here,” Anora ordered Bethany, a hand outstretched to her, “And get out,” she said to Eamon. Eamon, holding his cheek, stormed into the hallway. “Count to ten for me, Bethany,” Anora said, sitting her down on a sofa.

Bethany did as she was told, the breaths coming easier as she counted. “Again,” Anora commanded. After a third time, she asked, “How is Alistair?”

“He’s fine. Broken arm. Sleeping. Castle doesn’t have a proper healer, though. Just some man who mixes potions any grandmother could make. My gran could probably make them better, honestly.” Now that she felt she could breathe again, shame was creeping up on her. She’d completely lost herself, lost control of herself. She could have… she could have exposed herself. To more than just worry and pity and embarrassment.

“Is that what upset you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Well, the good news is we can fix that problem together. You can write the Circle Tower right now and tell them the castle is in need of a resident healer and mage. Alistair’s arm might be healed by the time they arrive, but you won’t need to worry again.”

Bethany nodded. To accept the quill from Anora she had to drop whatever was in her hand—her mother’s bracelet all tangled in her fingers. She’d been trying to tear it from her wrist. She released it now, pulling each finger free. The clasp had bent, but not broken. A small mercy.

Her hands were steady enough to write, but she still ruined the first attempt. With Anora’s quiet guidance, she soon had a missive of appropriate tone for a queen, commanding with no room for refusal in it. The castle required a suitable healer, and the Circle would send one. A servant boy took the letter and left for the rookery.

As if she’d been under water this whole time and suddenly found the water draining away, the room around her came into focus. She was sitting at a desk in another office she’d never been in before. She could hardly imagine it belonging to Anora, with its ugly curtains and cluttered surfaces, books and papers everywhere. “Where are we?” she asked before she thought better of it. It probably wasn’t the best idea to let Anora know just how affected she’d been, if she hadn’t surmised already. So much for impressing her.

“Eamon’s office. First floor of the castle.” That probably explained the portrait on the wall of a woman and child she’d never seen before. “Has that ever happened before?” Anora asked, “Where you felt like you couldn’t breathe?”

“Yes,” Bethany replied. She didn’t care to think of it now. There had been no one to hold her hand then and speak gently to her, just four stone walls and her own echoed gasps.

“Do you know what brought it on? This episode?”

Bethany nodded.

“Can you avoid whatever it was in the future?”

She shook her head. “I… I made a promise to Alistair but I… I don’t know if I can keep it. I don’t want to.”

Even thinking about it again, she felt the tears pressing her eyes, threatening to fall. Anora stood up and folded her hands in front of her. “As I see it, you have three choices. Do as he asks, suffer for it, and grow to resent him. Ignore him and your promise, and it’s Alistair, so he’s used to that. Or wait for him to wake up and compromise.”

Now that she was thinking more clearly, she knew Alistair wouldn’t hold her to something she couldn’t do. He wasn’t like that. She could… she could find a story, something, some way of telling him without telling him. Some way of keeping her freedom.

“I see you are already coming up with a plan. Good.” Anora turned toward the door, pitching her voice much louder. “Could whoever is in the hallway eavesdropping on us please come in?”

There was a pause, and Bethany hadn’t heard anything at all, but then the door creaked open and Zevran poked his head in. “You called?”

“Good,” Anora said, “I thought it was you. Please escort the Queen back to Alistair’s quarters. Her muscles will probably be shaky any moment now, so be dear, would you?”

It was not a request. Zevran bowed, and Bethany, who found even standing up to be more challenging than she had expected, allowed herself to be led through the corridors again. Zevran seemed to know the castle better than Bethany did, which was good, because her legs did start trembling after fifteen paces or so.

“Why were you eavesdropping?”

“So there I was, sleeping in my nice, soft, _large_ bed, coffee and scones delivered straight to my room. In my life, these are luxuries, and I am not a wasteful man. I ate slowly. Ferelden food is not so interesting, but none could criticize your dairy, so I put cream in my coffee, thick and smooth, and I drank it by the window and watched the birds circle in the sky. And you know what I did next?”

“No.”

“I called for a bath. I spend so much of my time with Darrian, fighting monsters underground, these simple things are pleasures to me, and so when given the chance, I indulge.” 

“It’s all new for me, too,” Bethany admitted, “I still forget I can have hot tea sent up whenever I want it.”

“Just so. So imagine my surprise after such a calm and enjoyable morning, to leave my chambers, clean, warm, fed, and find rumors that the King is dying and the Queen is wandering the halls, mourning him already.”

Bethany’s cheeks burned. She had no idea how long she walked for or who might have seen her. “Alistair is fine.”

“Yes, I found him first. Sleeping.”

“I’m fine, too.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He did _not_ sound convinced.

Alistair was just as she left him, sleeping, on his back. Bethany shuffled over to his sofa and collapsed on it, kicking off her slippers and curling up. Her muscles _hurt,_ like she had been rung dry, like she had overextended her mana and the sharp edges of the world fell dull.

“What happened?” Zevran asked from somewhere behind her.

“He fell off his horse.”

She heard a noise, a snort cut short, but a snort nonetheless. She peaked over the back of the sofa to see Zevran’s back shaking, his arms holding his sides.

“It’s not funny.”

“I think you’ll find with a little distance it is, in fact, very funny.” Bethany closed her eyes again. She doubted she would ever laugh with templars in the castle.

She woke up some time later, though how much time later was impossible to know. Alistair was still asleep, Zevran was gone, and so Bethany locked the door. Everyone knew about his arm, so there wasn’t much Bethany could do to heal it. A tiny bit of magic to decrease the swelling, relieve the pressure and maybe help with the pain. She pulled his shirt up to show the bruise on his side, purple and nasty now, and she placed a hand over it. She could feel the heat radiating off of it. His rib was cracked, and this she could fix easily. 

As she healed him, she watched his face for any signs of wakefulness. A twinge of pain, but his eyes did not open. There. He would breathe easier now.

There was nothing else to heal. His organs were fine, thankfully, and though he had a few scrapes and bruises here and there, she supposed he’d need to carry a few souvenirs of the ordeal. Probably none of it would scar, even.

~

Alistair had no idea what time it was when he woke up. It was dark, but it was winter so that was usual. Suppertime, middle of the night, breakfast time, lunch on cloudy days… all looked about the same, really. His arm ached, which was an unpleasant reminder of what an incomparable ass he was. And… Maker, he was supposed to be at a ball, and Bethany must have gone alone.

Scratch that, Bethany was in his room, sitting by his fire… sewing? She looked… not great if he were being honest. Her hair was the messiest he’d ever seen it, including the morning after they’d slept on his sofa. She was drawn, weary, even.

Someone had set a table with an entire dinner, though for once in his life, Alistair was not very hungry. Bethany must have felt the same, because the entire thing looked untouched. She couldn’t have been waiting for him. Especially when she noticed him stirring and turned right back to her sewing.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.”

The last time she looked so miserable had been during the thunderstorm. She’d lied then, too. She didn’t look afraid right now, but, well, Alistair wouldn’t say she looked _not_ afraid, either. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact emotion on her face, but he would like her to stop having it as soon as possible.

“Would you like to sit with me over here?” It was a bold move to invite her to his bed, but moving his own body seemed like a bad idea. Just sitting up caused his arm to shoot pain at him, and perhaps Bethany had been right about the whole “used to have a proper healer” thing. Once the initial shock wore off of whatever horrible thing happened him, he’d never had to continue to live with the consequences. Well, other than a sore knee, a creaky shoulder, one of his ears he was pretty certain was going deaf, and when it _rained,_ well, all sorts of things ached in ways he didn’t know they could. But he’d never had to tolerate the sort of acute pain that was throbbing right now with each inch he scooched to the left.

He patted the bed as if that would make the offer more enticing. Bethany did walk over though, and after a moment she climbed up and situated herself, her back resting along the headboard next to his.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Bethany stared at her hands in her lap, and Alistair noticed the bracelet she always wore was missing. “I don’t think I can keep my promise to you,” she said softly. 

“Oh.” Was she… was she leaving? It made sense. He would have left ages ago if he thought that were an option. It was only a matter of time before she realized this life was not worth it. He regretted asking her to sit so close, though, only for her to say she was leaving. He probably could have accepted the news without a lump in his throat if she were farther away, preferably in another room maybe, or in Orlais.

“About having a templar guard, I mean.”

What? “ _Oh._ ” Right. He vaguely remembered that. Was that all? He wouldn’t have bothered with the templars if the nobles hadn’t all been in an uproar about the whole thing. The Kingswood was an awfully suspicious place for an apostate to lurking around. He hadn’t been too worried about the risks of an assassin for himself, though given that he fell off his horse, he was probably overestimating his own competence there. Regardless, Bethany walked unarmed through the woods every day, and while templars weren’t his first choice of company, he’d rather her stay alive and not enthralled to some woods-dwelling batty, old mage. “Alright. But why not?”

“Have you ever been to Kirkwall?” Bethany asked.

“No,” he said slowly, “But I know of its reputation.”

“So you know the templars rule the city.”

“I had heard that is the case.”

Bethany shifted, her fingers curling around her wrist where her absent bracelet should be, and Alistair almost told her it didn’t matter, he didn’t need to know, when she spoke. “When we first arrived, we spent three days on a dock because they locked the gates and wouldn’t let us in the city. They didn’t care that my mother was a Kirkwaller, or that my uncle waited for us inside, or that we were _people_. No shelter, no food, just a hundred refugees on a dock for three days.”

“Maker.”

“That was my first impression of them. In over four years there, my opinion of them only got worse. They…” Bethany trailed off, her eyes remembering something far away, and Alistair did not want her to finish the sentence. He did not want to know what she’d seen, or worse, what she might have experienced at their hands. He’d dealt enough with those who abused their power. Had seen enough of how power could be twisted to harm.

An internal war raged in Alistair as to whether an arm around her shoulder would send the right message. She looked like she needed someone’s arm, and his was the only one available. The longer the silence lasted, the more forlorn she looked, and Alistair couldn’t stand it. With everything screaming in him that this was wrong, he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.

If she hated it, she gave no sign. She adjusted around him almost absently, moving until their hips were flush and his arm was more firmly around her. So. Probably the right call then. It was probably lucky he couldn’t use his other arm to pull her even closer and hold her until everything bad that had ever happened to her was no longer true.

They might have been there for a while.

“I’m sorry,” was all the comfort he had to offer.

A tear rolled down her cheek. “I hate them,” she admitted. A second tear down the other. “They were everywhere in Kirkwall, and I know I shouldn’t hate anyone, but we weren’t _people_ to them, and I hate them.”

Now he pulled her close, tucking her under his chin. Her fingers twisted into his shirt as she held onto him, quietly sniffling.

“And your sister sent you to Ferelden to get away from them.”

She nodded miserably.

And Alistair had invited them into the castle and made her promise to let them follow her around. Great. Solid move on his part.

Belatedly he realized he could never, ever tell her of his past.

“So,” he said when the sniffling had died down a bit, “You’re afraid of thunderstorms, horses, and templars. You’re a bit of a scaredy-cat, aren’t you?”

She wriggled out of his grasp. “I am not!”

“It makes sense now why I didn’t see you at Ostagar. There were a _lot_ of horses there. Some templars, too.”

She shoved him with her hip, and Alistair chuckled even if the movement sent sparks up pain up his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” he assured her.

“And how do you intend to do that with a broken arm? Talk my enemies to death?”

“You _wound_ me, my lady.” He gripped his chest for emphasis. “A dagger, straight to the heart.”

“I prefer polearms, actually.”

“Smart. Get those pesky horses from a distance.”

“I’d probably need to get better with a bow and arrow to take on a thunderstorm. My aim is terrible, but the target would be pretty large.”

“For my sake, please don’t try. I’d hate to anger the very sky. And shields aren’t very useful against lightning.”

Bethany laughed, just once, but it was a laugh. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, a very welcome weight, particularly as she was no longer sniffly. He didn’t mind her using his shirt as a hanky—he’d gladly let her do it again—but the difficulty in changing his shirt with his arm… well. He’d still gladly do it again. Especially when she wiggled a little and got his arm around her again herself. It fit quite nicely there. Comfortable. And she fit quite nicely here.

“Do you still like me?” The words popped out, stupid and needy all in one with a dash of random impulse, but Bethany’s answer was simple, if sleepily delivered:

“A lot.”


	13. Chapter 13

Bethany woke up with one half of her body incredibly warm and the other half unbearably cold. Her head was on Alistair’s chest—warm—though she had a brutal crick in her neck. She had curled herself as close to his body as she could, but the back of her was cold, so cold, except where his hand rested on her back—very, very warm. She was going to have to peel herself away from him to fix this. And “peeling” was the right word, because she realized she hadn’t changed into her night clothes and she had sweat through it all. She shucked everything off, too sleepy to even open her eyes, tossing the clothes away to rest wherever they lay, and crawled beneath the covers where she should have been in the first place. This was why, hours later when Alistair woke up, and after he had also decided to join her under the covers rather than on top of them, and after she had wiggled her way toward him again and his arm had found its way around her, Alistair woke up with a naked woman pressed up against him.

Well, mostly naked. She’d kept her smalls.

And this was why, when Bethany woke up, Alistair was rigidly still, staring at the ceiling, possibly not even quite breathing.

“Oh,” she said, also not moving. Despite the flush creeping across her cheeks, she did not want to move. She was quite happy where she was.

Alistair looked less than happy. He also looked as red as a tomato. He was mumbling something under his breath, seemingly very concentrated on it.

“What are you saying?” she asked. 

He did not look at her. “The Canticle of Apotheosis.”

The Chant of Light? This was the first indication of religiosity she’d seen out of him. “I never see you at service,” she accused.

He did not take his eyes off the ceiling. “Hardly need to go if I have the whole thing memorized, do I?”

“Do you? Have the _whole_ thing memorized?”

“Sorry, why aren’t you screaming and hiding on the other side of the bed?”

“Because I don’t feel like screaming, and you’re warm.”

“Oh, I’m warm, am I? And you’re, uh…” He cleared his throat, his eyes darting to her face and back. “And your clothes? Were they not warm enough for you?”

“Shut it.” She hid her face under the covers now, pulling them up and over her ears. “I was hot and cold by turns.”

“She runs hot and cold, she says. I’m warm, and she’s hot and cold and her clothes are…?”

She might have shoved him, but there was a knock at the door. Bethany popped her head out. “I don’t know where my clothes are.”

“Maybe they’re here to fix that.” Towards the door he called, “If you are Lydia or Annie, you can come in. If it’s Thom out there, go ahead and turn right around and find something else to do.”

The door opened, but it was neither Lydia nor Annie, nor Thom for that matter. “Alistair, I— Oh.” It was Eamon’s voice, and Bethany shrank down further under the covers.

“Did I say, Eamon come in?” Alistair demanded, “Get out, and find Annie or Lydia and tell them to bring the Queen her clothes for the day.”

“Right.” Eamon sounded overly pleased despite Alistair’s irritation, stumbling a bit over the one word with a clear, audible smile. Bethany, still hidden, started to scoot away from Alistair, trying not to think about Eamon _ogling_ them.

There was nothing wrong with her sharing a bed with her husband, or even with doing it mostly naked, probably, even if he did respond to that by praying at the ceiling. There was no reason for her to feel _so_ embarrassed, just because Eamon had no manners or respect and barged in wherever he wanted—

“Oh, Maker,” Alistair sighed when the door closed again. “Oh, that really does spoil what I was certain was the most incredible dream… unbelievable, even. Unlikely and improbable and a whole lot of other words as well.”

Bethany, now on the “other side of the bed” and much colder, peeked out from the covers. “I could still scream if it would make you feel better.”

“That’s quite alright. I’ll recover eventually.”

“Anora slapped him yesterday.”

“What?” He turned his face away from the ceiling entirely to look at her.

“Twice.”

“Twice?”

“I heard it in the hall.”

“Are you sure? She _slapped_ him? That could have been… a clap? Chop chop, Eamon?”

Bethany shook her head. “He was gripping his cheek. It was very loud.” Alistair raised one eyebrow. “It echoed.”

Another knock on the door, and this time it _was_ Annie with fresh clothes for Bethany which she put on behind Alistair’s dressing screen while he stared intently at the fireplace. Breakfast arrived soon after she was dressed, and with it Thom, who struggled to help Alistair into a clean shirt and breeches. She imagined he usually got dressed with less cursing and more clothes after, because his clean shirt was far too thin for this winter weather.

He sat in front of their breakfast with a grimace while Bethany poured him tea.

“Are you in pain?” she asked.

“No, no. I usually curse this much whenever I move my arm. Or any other part of my body. It’s why all my servants are utterly terrified of me.”

“A little terror might be nice, if I’m going to be naked in your bed again.”

Alistair tried to speak, knocked over his tea cup, cleared his throat while dabbing the tea with the tablecloth, and tried again. “And are you? Going to be, uh… are you?”

Bethany laughed, pouring him more tea. Unfortunately, Eamon came back. Bethany buttered Alistair’s muffin while trying to school her face into something neutral. He smiled too much at seeing them together, and it just bordered on _leering_.

“You were both missed at the ball last night.” A veiled reprimand, and to Bethany’s ears, it did not get better from there. “After her majesty’s strong showing at the feast, many were looking forward to speaking with her again and were disappointed.” Bethany shoved a piece of her own muffin in her mouth. Great. “Alistair, many have expressed a desire to come give you well wishes. However, I think it best, after your equestrian fumble yesterday, if more people didn’t see our King, previously so respected for his capabilities on the battlefield, enfeebled in this way. It wouldn’t send the right message.”

Alistair had slumped considerably in his chair since Eamon started talking, his food untouched. _Shrinking,_ Bethany thought. “Whatever you say, uncle.”

“Anora smoothed things over,” Eamon continued, “Promising that as soon as you were well, you would engage in a grand procession through Denerim with your bride. A fine suggestion, and it will stave off any rumors about any permanent disability to your person, but I would warn you about letting Anora have undue influence over you, Alistair, or to even appear to influence you. You two are very different people, and she is still respected for her shrewdness, strategy, and political acumen.”

Alistair, eyes on his lap, nodded.

“I would also warn you to try to stay seated on your horse in the future.”

“If anyone would be suspected of undue influence,” Bethany piped in before she could think better of it, “Would it not be you, Eamon?”

He blinked at her, as if surprised she dared speak at all. “I am Alistair’s uncle. I gave up my Arling and my home to help him rule the country. I daresay it’s to be expected.” Before Bethany could stand up and possibly start shouting at him, Eamon continued, addressing Alistair. “I met with your council this morning while you were in bed, and it was agreed that for the duration of your recovery, for your health, we will have the meetings without you, and fill you in on them after.”

“You met without us?” Bethany asked. _She_ hadn’t agreed to anything, and she didn’t like the sound of this. “You could just move the meetings to his quarters. There’s room enough for everyone to sit. There is no reason to keep him out of things.”

Eamon gave her a placating smile. “I thought you’d be pleased to hear this, your majesty. This will give you two more time in the mornings for other pursuits.”

“Us _two_? I’m not injured.” Bethany frowned at Eamon. “I will still be attending the meetings, even if Alistair chooses to rest.”

“Your majesty,” Eamon said with a bow, and how anyone could bow condescendingly was beyond Bethany, but she was going to have to ask Anora the proper response to it, “After yesterday’s episode through the halls, we’ve decided not to trouble your majesty with such important matters. We do not want to upset your… fragile constitution.”

Her face burned. As if one bout of panic made her an invalid that could not do her duty by the kingdom. But where Alistair had shrunk under the petty digs of his petty uncle, Bethany was struggling not to simply set the man on fire. She might have had a comeback if her entire concentration were not set on this monumental task.

“Episode in the halls?” Alistair asked.

“It’s nothing,” Bethany lied.

“Her majesty was quite distressed after your injury yesterday. She was seen walking the halls in disarray. Her care for you does her credit, but we do not want to overtax her or give reason to the people to worry about her wellbeing.”

She felt stupid and tongue-tied, which was the entire point, she knew, to push her down, push them _both_ down, but there was a lump in her throat and it was _working_. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing

“Well,” Eamon said to their silence, “I shall let you both finish your breakfast.”

The silence hung heavy after Eamon’s departure. Thoroughly scolded and belittled, neither of them touched their food.

When they spoke, it was simultaneously.

“He has no right to speak to you like—”

“Unbelievable,” Alistair muttered, “ _You_ make a good impression and I… fall off a fucking horse.”

Bethany’s mouth dropped open. “That’s… that’s what you’re taking away from this?”

“That I made a complete ass of myself again?”

“Your uncle is the ass.”

Alistair shook his head, somehow slumping yet further. “He’s right. The _only_ point in my favor as King is my ability to hold a shield.”

Bethany stood up, nervous energy threatening to release itself in any direction, in any _element,_ so she paced instead. She _knew_ Eamon was wrong about Alistair. Maybe he wasn’t wrong about others’ perceptions of him—she hadn’t been around long enough to be sure—but he was wrong about Alistair. But as for her own impressions…

“If we’re going to spend the morning criticizing ourselves, I think he made it clear my episode through the castle didn’t help.” 

“An episode that _I_ caused.”

Bethany whipped around. “You couldn’t have known—”

“No,” he growled, glaring fiercely at the table, “Of course not. That would involve me _knowing_ anything.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I think I’m being just about right.”

“ _Alistair_.”

He turned to look at her now, defeat written across his face. “Bring out the flogs, then, Beth, it doesn’t change what I am.”

Her fingers curled themselves into fists. “You’re _not._ ”

“What, because I spared traitors during a Blight? That wasn’t clever, and it wasn’t politics or strategy. It wasn’t anything. I just didn’t know what I was _doing_. I still have no idea—Anything that went right was just dumb luck. What was it you said others would have done? Give the lands of the traitors to friends or family? _What_ friends or family? Who in the world would I replace them with?” He twisted the tablecloth around and around his hand as he spoke, his fingers turning white. When his pulling caused a saucer to milk to tip over and pour its contents on the table, he released the cloth. “I was… It was the end of the world, and Darrian put me on the throne because it was the easiest way to fight the Blight and whatever else, and because Loghain sold his father into slavery and Anora was… But the world didn’t end, and things did come after and Darrian left. They all left, and I was stuck here. They always told me I would never… The only certainty I had in life was that this would never happen, I would never have to _be_ this. and I was _happy_ to be a Grey Warden.”

Bethany didn’t know what to say. The words were tangled up in her mouth, and she stood uselessly while he continued to berate himself.

“You’ve only been here a month. You don’t know how bad at this I’ve been. The only thing I _tried_ to do went sideways almost immediately. Shianni got death threats.” He laughed bitterly. “Not just threats. In trying to bolster the alienage, we had to lock it down for _months_ for their own safety, which is about as shitty as it sounds. Tried to give the Hero of Ferelden a boon and ended up jailing his entire family for the crime of being favored by me while unfortunately being elves.”

“That is not your fault,” Bethany got out, her voice wavering a little and, Maker, she was not going to cry because that wouldn’t help _anything,_ but it just sort of happened when other people were angry or upset or when she was having any emotion at all these days, and her throat was already lumpy with it. “It didn’t go as you thought it would, but you still chose mercy over cruelty, to lift people up over petty revenge. Maybe with more guidance or knowledge you would have done it differently, but your _character—_ ”

“Ask Anora whether or not I turned toward petty revenge when it suited me.” Bethany swallowed, unable to respond without risking the tears that pressed ever closer. And Alistair had more faults to confess and no desire to stop. “Then there was the memorial for Grey Wardens who fell at Ostagar. I ordered it built it in _Highever_ , because—well it doesn’t matter why, but the Blight barely touched Highever, and nobody could understand it. Why snub my own city? Now that was hard to fuck up, but I did it.”

 _You can build other memorials,_ she wanted to say. _Just put another one in Denerim_. Instead her stupid lip trembled, and even though she kept her face tilted toward the ceiling, a traitorous tear escaped. Alistair wasn’t looking at her, and maybe he wouldn’t see, but if she sniffled now, it would be all over. Or she could do something _really_ stupid like wipe the tear away and draw his attention, and his face would look something like how it looked now, tight and hurt and sad and horrified _._

“Don’t give yourself credit for this,” she bit. “I refuse to let you add my tears to your list of sins. It has nothing to do with you.” She sniffled and fished an embroidered kerchief out of a pocket to hide her face in.

“Beth—”

Her voice trembled as she interrupted him, stuttering over half the words. “Look, if you are going to argue that you’re too stupid and ignorant to be good at anything, then you’ll just have to admit that I’m right because I’m _not_ stupid. You can’t have it both ways.”

“I’m the only other one here. Who else could be at fault?”

“ _Me_.” She wiped her face. Oh, this was hopeless. “I’m going to leave and stop crying, which again has nothing to do with you, and I’ll talk to you later with rebuttals when my face remembers how to behave.”

“Beth—” he tried again.

“Goodbye.” She turned on her heel and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke voice: Who needs flogs when you can just self-flagellate?
> 
> Hawke voice: We're going to beat this joke to death.


	14. Chapter 14

It was simply a rule of the world that nobody ever listened to anyone who was crying. Bethany had learned that at an early age. Accuse her brother of pushing her into the mud with the evidence across her torn skirts and dirty face, and nobody would believe her if they had to listen through her sobs. Tears, in themselves, were seen as a mark of someone whose words were not to be trusted.

It didn’t stop her from crying.

All the time. Especially these days. She had cried in the Circle, she knew it. Her early days there, she felt like the hem of her robes were always soaked in saltwater, that the harbor flooded her room at night and took all her tears to sea. But she’d stopped at some point. Even when she got the news her mother had been killed, she didn’t remember crying. Templars hated mages who made noise, and at some point Bethany had dried up.

Since coming to Denerim, she felt she was crying at least once a day. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes angry. Any emotion seemed to bring it on, and if the other nobles knew how often their Queen was escaping to a private corner to cry because her supper reminded her of her mother’s cooking or because a puppy in the kennels put his head on her knee, they might have been worrying about more than just one panicked trip through the castle halls.

Red, puffy eyes could be defeated with cold fingers magically chilled and applied for a few minutes. A glass or two of water would help with the headache, as would healing magic or elfroot tea. Then she could get to work.

Despite what she said to Alistair, rebutting him was not first on her agenda. He would stew in his self-loathing for the foreseeable future, and what was a few more hours after apparently years of it? Bethany had other things to accomplish.

She sent for Anora with a brief, polite missive that was absolutely an order and not a request. Then she made her way to the solar of yesterday’s interrupted tea and waited.

Anora did not keep her long.

“I wanted to thank you for helping me through my little episode yesterday,” Bethany said, “And to finish our tea that was so abruptly interrupted. I know many of the others have started to return home with Alistair laid up in bed and my own wellbeing in question. I’m glad you have stayed.”

“Half the people who lived in Denerim during the siege experience these things, I would wager,” Anora averred, “It’s more common than you might think, and as you might have guessed, you are not the first I’ve talked through such a state. When the horde arrived here, there wasn’t enough time for a true evacuation. I suppose I was lucky I didn’t see much from my tower.”

“You were in a tower?” Bethany asked.

“In prison. Alistair decided to keep me there in case he died fighting the Archdemon and the nation needed a new monarch again. Personally, I don’t think he intended on coming home from that fight.”

Bethany glared at her hands. When Kirkwall had burned, and they had heard screaming all the way across the harbor in the Gallows, when the mages Orsino took with him didn’t come back, when Varric had written Bethany to tell her what Lea had done, she wondered the same thing. The Arishok was no Archdemon, but running headfirst through streets soaked in blood into the battle and challenging him to a duel felt like the actions of a woman who didn’t care how it ended. But Lea lived and broke Bethany out of the Gallows.

Alistair faced the end of the world, and he had lived, and he became King, and as King had improved the circumstances of elves and mages across the country, whether or not he believed it. Safeguarded everyone from further blights, too. Unified a nation on the brink of civil war and oversaw its rebuilding efforts. Despite his mistakes and blunders, nobody could deny any of that. 

Nobody except Alistair himself.

“Where was Denerim hit worst in the battle?” Bethany asked.

“Fort Drakon is where the archdemon landed and was defeated. It is now a pile of rubble, and everything around it was demolished.”

It sounded like a perfect spot for a memorial of some sort. Or perhaps just a statue to the two men who slew the Archdemon. “Perhaps on our grand procession that you so kindly recommended, we should stop there in remembrance of the fallen.”

“I think that is a splendid idea.”

Bethany fell silent while they both focused on their tea. Her next question was too blunt for politics, too obvious in intention, but there was nothing for it. “What is Eamon’s exact role at court?” Bethany asked.

Anora almost smiled. Good. Bethany was certain there was no love lost there, so Anora’s support and discretion could be counted on. Her cup clinked on the saucer as she set it to the side. “He was Arl of Redcliffe before Alistair took the throne. He relinquished his title to his brother in order to act as a personal advisor to Alistair. He has been his staunchest ally. Without him, I would likely still be Queen, and Alistair a celebrated Grey Warden.”

There were a lot of holes in that story. A lot of history and missing pieces. Bethany was only interested in one of them. “Why?” she pressed, “Why did he champion Alistair?”

“Other than because my father tried to have Eamon killed? Eamon has always insisted on the importance of the Theirin bloodline.” She paused to take a sip of tea. “And, of course, he raised Alistair at Redcliffe castle until he was ten.” 

Anora’s eyebrow quirked at Bethany’s expression. Eamon _raised_ Alistair? That couldn’t be right. “But you said he wasn’t brought up for this. That he wasn’t prepared to be King. Growing up under the tutelage of an Arl—”

“He wasn’t, your majesty. To my knowledge, Eamon did nothing to prepare him for the role. It was never expected he should need to succeed Cailan. Very few even knew he existed.”

That was… absurd. Bizarre. Even Bethany, growing up as a peasant apostate with nothing to indicate her lot in life would ever change had been taught by her noble mother basic lessons that would help her interact with her betters. How to curtsy and flatter, budgeting and ranks of the peerage and table manners and—

And Alistair grew up sleeping with the dogs. Eamon’s dogs.

Her rage from earlier came flaring back to life. Anora was watching her carefully, so Bethany took measured breaths, not a flicker of candle light or a tremble of windowpanes to give her away. No tears, either. She sipped her tea, cold now, and poured another cup while trying not to be dizzy with anger. A lump of sugar to help the knowledge go down easier and a wedge of lemon for the sour taste in the room.

“And what would happen if I were to send Eamon away?” Bethany asked.

Anora was only too pleased to answer. “It’s very simple, your majesty. He would leave.”

There was a cacophony of thoughts crowding Bethany’s head. Outrage was the loudest, pure fury at a man who would dare to call himself uncle. Years of neglect and manipulation and pressure and he pretended to _care_ about a boy who wasn’t even given a _bed,_ and Bethany could do nothing about that at all, so she had to think—to _plan—_ because she could not erase the past, but she also could not allow another minute of it.

“Yes, but what _else_ would happen?”

“Arl Teagan might be very cross with you for sending his brother to stay with him. Eamon’s wife, Isolde, might also have some feelings regarding his sudden return. Negative or positive, I wouldn’t dare speculate.”

It was still an incomplete picture. Actions had ramifications. Eamon was about to receive his, but Bethany wanted to know exactly what she was about to do. “The support of Redcliffe is instrumental to the welfare of the country,” she said.

Anora smiled. “So it is.”

Bethany took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through her mouth. There was work to be done, and none but her to do it.

She spent the rest of the day taking meetings. She sent out runners across the castle and into the city to summon the people she wanted. It was very convenient that Alistair’s hunt was canceled and he was not taking visitors, because everyone had free time on their hands and could not refuse her summons. Most were happy to oblige her, she won over a couple others with relentless politeness, and by the end of the afternoon, when she called Eamon into her solar, she had six people quite comfortably sitting around her—Alistair’s council and a few more—in perfect agreement that given how well the country was recovering from the Blight, Eamon deserved to spend his golden years in peaceful retirement with his wife and child.

~

Alistair sat for a long while next to his soggy table. He stared at nothing in particular, vaguely wishing Bethany would come back to save him from his thoughts but understanding entirely why she probably would not be back. Maybe ever.

No, that was stupid. He could keep thinking that, but she kept coming back. For some reason.

That was before he had made her cry, though. Despite her argument that he wasn’t the cause, what else could have caused it? She was having a week on par with his own for being just absolute shit, and what had he done? Made her feel even worse. Threw her comfort back in her face.

It was right for him to sit here, bored, in pain, and useless. But Eamon’s ban on visitors could not stop one guest from finding his way into Alistair’s room. Zevran arrived in his traveling clothes to say goodbye.

“I had hoped you would be conscious for more of my visit to you, but alas, it was not to be. Alcohol and bodily injury are very much like old times, though, so I will call this a successful visit.” Alistair gave Zevran a one-armed hug from his chair, but Zevran lingered. “If you write a letter to Darrian, I promise to deliver it faithfully. If you say please, I won’t even peek at the contents.”

“Darrian doesn’t want to hear from me,” Alistair muttered. He would have _been_ here if he wanted to. Alistair had hardly been able to look him in the eye since Darrian came to Denerim to eliminate the threat against Shianni and the rest of his family when Alistair had failed to protect them. His stomach still twisted into knots any time he walked past the alienage, and Shianni was left barely even a figurehead. A right disaster all around, he could hear Eamon telling him, and a bad look to have the Hero of Ferelden clean up all of Alistair’s messes.

“So he made you King and you imprisoned his family,” Zevran said with a shrug, “A friendship can overcome this. As you like to remind everyone, I once tried to kill you.”

“What would I even say to him?”

“Tell him about Bethany.”

Zevran placed the paper in front of Alistair and fetched his ink and pen. Alistair sighed, but Zevran would just continue to needle him if he didn’t do it, so he picked up the pen and tried to write.

_Dear Darrian,_

_As you must have heard, I have been recently married._

“It’s a good start,” Zevran said, peering over his shoulder after Alistair hadn’t moved the pen in five minutes. “Maybe try describing her hair. You had a lot to say about her hair the other night.”

Alistair snorted.

_The marriage was arranged by my uncle. I find myself very lucky with his choice of bride. Actually, she wasn’t his choice, now that I think about it. I was supposed to marry her sister, and she tricked him. And me, also, I guess._

Alistair could _hear_ Zevran’s disapproval as he continued on this travesty of a letter. He set the pen down.

“Why don’t _you_ just write down what I ought to say?”

“Because Darrian is familiar with my handwriting. Her smile, Alistair, tell him about her smile.”

_Zevran would like for me to describe her for you, though why he can’t describe her himself is beyond me. So here it is. She’s shorter than I expected, around Zevran’s height, I suppose—_

“She’s taller. Do we all look the same to you down here?”

_Her hair is black and very straight. Her eyes are dark, almost as dark as her hair. Shall I describe her eyelashes next? They are ample. Zevran wants you to know that she has a very nice smile. She has nice teeth._

“Maker’s breath, Alistair.”

_She’s from Lothering, of all places. Might have even been there when we passed through. She has one of those sweet southern accents. It’s nice to know more than a silly rose made it out. Especially after I lost the wilted thing during the siege. That’s what I get for being sentimental._

Now that Alistair’s pen was scratching out more than one word a minute, Zevran wandered over to his window. Easier to think of things to say when they weren’t being immediately commented on.

_She’s clever, or at least she seems clever to an idiot like me. She reads a lot, walks a lot in the woods. She learned the name of everyone in the castle in about a week, which had me beat by two months at least. She swears like a Warden when she thinks nobody can hear her. When I fell off my horse, she shoved Arlessa Meiriona right out of the way, knocked her right into the mud, and I don’t even know if she noticed. Couldn’t laugh at it at the time, but now… Maker. I wouldn’t stand in her way. Every time I think I know how she’ll react to something, she surprises me. She’s afraid of thunder and horses and probably spiders and frogs, but she faced down the Bannorn like they were nothing._

_We argued this morning. I made her cry, though she denied it. She believes in me for some reason. I can’t quite figure out why, and I’ve tried to get her to stop, but there you have it. She keeps doing it. I suppose we can add ‘persistent’ to her list of qualities._

_In short, she’s far too good for the likes of me. I think you would be hard-pressed to find fault with her, other than she has the unfortunate luck to have been married off to me._

_I think she would be very happy to meet you, should you wish to visit. I should be happy to see you as well._

_Alistair_

He folded it up before Zevran could read the whole thing, though he doubted that would do much good. Even if the man didn’t read his blasted letter on his way to Darrian, the first thing Darrian would do when he was done with it would be to hand it to Zevran to read.

Still, Zevran lingered. “There’s one last thing. I have a belated wedding present for you. For both of you, really.” He dropped a book on the table. The cover revealed nothing of its contents, but Alistair had a funny feeling he knew exactly what he would find when he opened it. Zevran blocked his hand. “Found it in town today. It has diagrams. Anatomy. Take a look at it _after_ I’ve left.”

Alistair shoved the book toward Zevran, mumbling, “I don’t need—I know about her bits… and things.”

“That you call them her ‘bits’ and her ‘things’ makes me believe otherwise. Anyway, you only know what the other boys talked about at templar school or the Wardens. And they didn’t know shit. This book has advice to increase her chances of enjoying herself. You are not a selfish man, no? Give it a look.”

Alistair rolled his eyes to the heavens as Zevran finally made his way to the door. “Oh, and don’t think she hasn’t been reading up on these things on her own,” he called over his shoulder.

And now Alistair wasn’t certain how he was going to think about anything else. And he really, really shouldn’t be thinking about her thinking about him and any bits or things related to him. He glared at the book, as if it were somehow responsible for whatever knowledge Bethany did or didn’t have regarding—

Blast.

There really was no point in thinking about these things. Maker, he had cocked it all up again. When Zevran walked out the door, he took with him the tiny vestiges of a good mood Alistair might have possibly had. The room felt even emptier than when Bethany had left that morning. Colder, too. Seemed about right. Just about what he deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say Darrian has a hard time reading the letter with his face in his palms the whole time. 
> 
> 11/15/20 I have now written Darrian's reaction to the letter here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218707/chapters/67463879#workskin


	15. Chapter 15

Bethany swept in as the servants were placing supper in front of Alistair. He supposed that was why they had set the table for two. He had assumed it was rather optimistic on their part, but he wasn’t going to spoil it for them.

“You’re back,” he said lamely. 

“Yes, sorry, I meant to come back sooner and check on you, but I felt a bit inspired after this morning and got a lot done.” Her arms were full of papers and binders which she now set down on his desk.

“You have no reason to apologize. Wait, you were… inspired?”

To his utter bewilderment, she put a hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek before sitting down across from him at their table. “Yes, I took about a dozen meetings, I think, including with Shianni. She’s brilliant. I can see why you chose her to be Bann. She’ll make a perfect addition to the council.”

“You’re adding people to my council?”

Bethany had just taken a bite of food, and now she chewed as quickly as she could to try to respond. Alistair held his hand up to try to tell her it was _fine_ , but she looked almost triumphant as she swallowed and dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

“Well, I thought about this, and I could have my own separate one, if you like. I’ve asked Anora to stick around a bit longer, and she’s happy to oblige. I know your relationship with her is strained, but she’s the only one around here with any experience being royalty.”

This was not what Alistair was expecting as his suppertime conversation. He was expecting rebukes or frustration with him and fewer smiles or… or maybe he _should_ have expected this. He’d told her how incompetent he was, and she’d spent the day changing his administration. Taking charge. That was… good? Worrisome? She’d taken his words to heart and believed him, which was what Alistair had wanted, so it must be good.

Bethany was smiling at him, looking hopeful, happy, almost. He didn’t know what to say.

“There’s one more thing. Eamon is leaving for Redcliffe in the morning.”

Alistair’s fork clattered on his plate. “What? Why?”

“Well we all discussed it, and we thought for his _wellbeing_ and his _elderly constitution,_ at his age, it would be more healthful for him to spend time with his family at his home and to leave politics aside.”

Stunned and stupid he may be, but Alistair did not miss Bethany’s choice of words. Eamon’s hair had all gone white, sure, but four years ago he swung a sword at the Archdemon and had seemed to suffer no ill effects from it. This was personal. “You threw out Eamon?”

“I did.”

Baffled didn’t even begin to describe how he felt. “You can’t do that.”

“I can! I checked. I’m allowed as Queen. I can throw out anyone I want except you. And even that, well, there’s precedent. Not that I want to. You could invite him back as King, but I don’t think you should. Or, I don’t know, give it at least six months without him before inviting him back. For me.”

She checked? With who? Eamon wasn’t some servant she caught pilfering. He gave up an Arling for this. He dedicated his life to this. To _him._ Eamon was—she couldn’t just throw him out. It wasn’t done. Not with Eamon.

“Why?”

Her mouth tightened around the edges. Here was the anger he’d expected after this morning, but it wasn’t directed at him. “Because he’s an asshole.”

“You’d be hard pressed to find a noble who isn’t.”

“I’d be hard pressed to find someone who has treated you worse,” she shot back. She took a deep breath through her nose, then said in a much quieter tone, “He made you sleep with the dogs.”

He knew he never should have told her about that. He didn’t know why he’d said it in the first place. It didn’t really matter. It was just a thing that happened years ago. “It’s more complicated than that. He’s not a bad man. There were rumors… his wife felt humiliated by me. People thought I was his bastard. I don’t blame him for what he did. Or her for feeling slighted by me.”

If his words were meant to placate her, they did not work. Bethany looked fearsome as she responded. “Well I do. She knew you weren’t his, and she did this to you anyway. And he _let_ her. To a boy. A child that he promised to care for. Why would I trust him with a country if he would do that to you?”

Alistair had no answer to that. How could the two things even compare? Bethany stood up now, pacing back and forth in deep agitation.

“Alistair, do you know what I would do if I found out you had a bastard? If you had a dozen motherless bastards by a dozen ill-fated women?” Alistair could hardly imagine how such a scenario would come to be, much less Bethany’s next words. “I would invite them here. Clothe them, feed them, educate them, and teach them that they are worthy no matter the circumstances surrounding their birth. A baby does not encapsulate the sins of his parents, if having a baby even is a sin, and to _teach_ him that…” She trailed off in her anger, flexing her hands into fists. 

“Not everyone has your kind heart. Not everyone has that generosity.” No one did, in fact. He was certain of it.

There were tears in her eyes again when she faced him. “I’m not that generous. I don’t forgive him for what he did to you, and if you invite him back here, I will throw him out again. He lost the right to call himself your uncle when he gave you to the Chantry like the orphan you are.”

A tear fell down her cheek, and Bethany wiped it away with a heartfelt, “ _fuck_.” She pulled out a fresh handkerchief and dabbed at her face. “Six months, Alistair. Please. Don’t invite him back for six months.”

He nodded, feeling quite lost. Eamon had been with him from the start of this whole King thing, and Alistair didn’t know how to go about it without him. But clearly it meant a lot to Beth, and he wouldn’t refuse her. They’d muddle along somehow, two lowborn orphans making the best of it.

Bethany eventually sat down again, and they managed to finish a meal together, albeit in stunted silence. Alistair told her of Zevran’s departure and that the templars had swept the Kingswood, found nothing, and gone home. Bethany nodded and set her jaw and said very little.

After their strangely quiet dinner, Bethany returned to her quarters, and with nothing better to do, Alistair called for a bath.

He reflected that after waking up with Bethany in his bed, he’d had two meals with her in one day that involved her crying. Not a great success on his part. Probably wouldn’t need Zevran’s book after all. Not that he really thought he would, but… well.

His one-armed entry to the tub could also not be called a success. Water everywhere. Maker, he was an idiot. Trying to live with one functional arm was terrible. Why _didn’t_ the castle have a proper healer? What if he _had_ broken his back? What if Bethany had? Or if the apostate in the woods had attacked her, or wolves, or very persistent squirrels…

He was hit with a sudden wave of dizziness as he realized that if _he_ were to die so soon into their marriage, Bethany would be in danger. Best case scenario they’d let her abdicate and send her home to Kirkwall, but assassins were more likely. Especially now that she’d sent Eamon away. She shouldn’t have sent Eamon away. Maker, he—he had to take better care of himself.

He was not off to a brilliant start. Although he was lucky enough to break his left arm, one day wasn’t long enough to figure out how to do everything with his right. He couldn’t get the lid off a jar of overly fancy noble soap. A _bar_ would not have posed this problem. He could have _handled_ a bar. But no, he was King, someone ordered some ridiculous jar of something from Orlais or Antiva or Nevarra, and now he couldn’t open it, and in his attempt, the damn thing managed to pop out of his hand and land with a thud on his floor. At least it hadn’t shattered.

“Do you need help?” Bethany asked. Alistair closed his eyes. Of course, _of course_ she’d see him floundering in a bathtub. Not a single minute of a single day was he going to look competent in front of her. “I came to... it doesn’t matter. Can I wash your hair for you?”

“You want to… what? You can just find Thom or whoever takes care of the castle’s babies, we must have someone skilled in bathing an invalid—”

“I can do it. I’d _like_ to, if you let me.”

 _Why?_ He kept asking her that question. Why any of this? What was she possibly seeing that was worth this effort? But he didn’t ask. Not this time. He didn’t say anything as she moved a chair to sit behind him or opened the jar that had thwarted him earlier.

She was careful as she scooped water over his hair. He could have just dunked for her, but he didn’t. It was slower this way, handful after handful of water over his hair. She—she didn’t have to do this, was all he could think. She didn’t have to help him or protect him from Eamon or… or _care_.

But she was. And she did.

And he couldn’t explain why it hurt.

She lathered up his hair, and Alistair could not remember ever being touched like this. She was gentle, careful with him, like he was delicate. Like he mattered. She cupped a hand over his forehead to prevent the soap from getting in his eyes, and that was something he really could have done himself, but he didn’t have to, because she didn’t want his eyes to sting. They did anyway.

Somehow, having someone else scoop the water and pour it over his head to rinse his hair felt completely different than when he did it himself. It felt _better_. He swallowed against the curious and persistent lump in his throat as she worked all the suds out of his hair, and it hurt, and he wished she’d never stop.

“Wait,” she said when the water was clean of suds, and she stood up and ran from the room, leaving Alistair blinking in her wake. Waiting was really all Alistair _could_ do, so he did, and she returned, breathless, with a little jar in her hand.

“Smell this,” she said, waving the opened container under his nose. It smelled like her hair. “It’s lavender and a little tea tree oil and some other things. It’s good for the hair in winter, especially the ends that get all dry.”

He heard her set the jar aside, and then her fingers were in his hair again. She hummed while she worked the oil into his hair, and Alistair, to his dismay and complete incomprehension, began to cry.

He couldn’t say why. He couldn’t even say what he was feeling. Bethany hummed and ran her fingers through his wet hair, and tears poured down his face. She switched to a comb, working out each snarl with a gentleness he didn’t know existed, and he felt as if his ribcage had shattered and crumbled, that he was hollow, caved in. That he was nothing.

“I bet it would do wonders in your beard, as well,” Bethany said as she peered around to get a look at him, “Bet it gets all… scratchy… Alistair, what’s wrong?” Her face fell as she took in his sorry state.

Alistair didn’t have any answers. He couldn’t tell her why this was happening, so he just shook his head at her, squeezing his eyes shut against his seemingly endless supply of tears. She called his name, but he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t be looked at by her, not like this.

His eyes opened when he heard a splash and felt the water shift around him. Bethany was stepping into the tub, skirts and all, and she knelt before him, water creeping up her dress and spilling over the side of the tub.

“What?” was all he managed to say to his incomprehensible action, more an exhalation than a word because he was sobbing, his caved in chest throbbing and Bethany was _in his tub with him_ , fully clothed, and she had wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him forward in a hug that she held and did not let go.

Alistair couldn’t have fought her if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t know what he wanted. It all just _hurt_ , but it hurt a little less with Bethany holding his head to her chest, the sound of her heartbeat in his ears. He was naked and embarrassed and _wrong_ , he was always just _wrong_ with it, with everything, but Bethany did not let go, not even when he settled, when he caught his breath and caught it again because whatever this was just couldn’t be squelched. 

But he did grow calm, and his eyes dried out, and Bethany held him, kneeling in his tub.

“You’re all wet,” he said.

“I don’t care.”

She peeled herself away from him, cradling his face in her hands, then she kissed his cheeks, one followed by the other. She moved to his forehead, then three kisses for his nose.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I care about you.”

“ _Why_?” he asked again, pleading this time.

“There is no why of it Alistair. It just is.”

Fumbling, he reached for her. He pulled her around until she sat in the tub with her back against his chest, more water spilling over the side as she settled. She leaned back, and rested his head against hers, breathing her in, just breathing with his arm slung around her waist and her hand over his.

The pain and the tightness in his chest started to lessen, and now he was just tired. Bethany started humming again, some song he didn’t recognize.

“I care about you, too, you know,” he murmured. 

“I know. That’s why you’re going to let me steal your towel when I figure out how to get out of here.”

A noise that could almost be a laugh escaped him. “What possessed you to get into the tub in the first place?”

She shrugged. “It made sense at the time. The real trick, I think, will be getting out.”

He didn’t want her to get out, and she made no motion to move. He could have stayed all night with her resting against his chest, his head empty other than the scent of her hair and the sound of her humming, and maybe he would have, except—

“You’re shivering.”

“The water’s gone cold, Ali.”

“Right.” So it had. He’d hardly noticed.

“I think I should get out first,” she said, “But I can’t get out with these clothes on. They’re too heavy and wet.”

“Oh.” He pulled his hand back from her waist, as if mentioning being naked _made_ her naked. And he was very, very naked. She started pulling at her laces, and Alistair’s blood started moving in ways it really shouldn’t be moving.

“I’m going to keep my smalls, and take your towel, and find you a dry one.”

“Right.”

Right. That was all fine. She shimmied and squeezed out of her dress, and Alistair tried to look at anything but her, still catching a glimpse of bare shoulders and a calf, and grateful he could cover up a little with her discarded dress as his body reacted things it was _not_ meant to react to.

This was… whatever had happened here tonight was not _sexy_. If he had to guess, he would assume it was the furthest thing from Beth’s mind after watching him break down. Still, he just wanted her near him, close enough to touch even if it wasn’t more than just touching.

There was maneuvering, drawers being opened and closed, a shifting of his dressing screen, and a tense moment when Alistair almost slipped trying to get out of the tub because he had been sitting for too long in cold water and his knees had locked up, but soon they were both dressed in his nightshirts, one fitting a bit more snugly than the other, and Alistair’s heart swelled in his chest because he knew she meant to stay.

She didn’t have to ask if it was alright, but she did anyway.

“Yes,” he said too eagerly, “Please.”

She settled herself in bed with her head on his chest, and for the thousandth time that day he lamented his blasted arm, because he wanted to curl himself around her like that first night together. Her hand resting over his heart would have to do just as well, he supposed, and though he didn’t want to fall asleep, didn’t want to miss any time just holding Bethany, he felt himself drifting away.

“You’ll come back tomorrow, won’t you?” he asked, his eyes refusing to stay open.

“I’ll sleep here every night if you like.”

He must have dreamed that. A nice dream, all the same.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a tag warning for graphic violence in this chapter. It is the last section (so I added two ~~ instead of the usual one), and if you want to skip Alistair fighting, I'd scroll past where he finds Bethany and read the end notes!

For the next month, Bethany and Alistair met with their new council every day, for the first few weeks in Alistair’s quarters so he didn’t have to move much, and then later in their usual meeting room. Once Alistair could put on clothes without cursing out Thom, he and Bethany held court together most days, and most days left feeling it was a bit of a success. That first day, everyone’s eyes on her, Bethany had been so nervous taking her seat next to Alistair, she sat too close to the edge and almost slipped right off her throne. Alistair reached out to take her hand, holding it the entire time, and everything felt a lot easier after that.

And every night, Bethany slept in Alistair’s bed.

It was mostly sleeping. Mostly. It took over a week for Alistair to stop looking entirely bewildered every time Bethany kissed him. Not that that stopped her. She rather liked the dazed look in his eyes, how his words got all jumbled after. With his uncertainty and his broken arm, though, it couldn’t be much more than kissing.

“Who knew bones took this long to heal?” Alistair whined during only the second week of it. He was restless with energy and forbidden by the non-magical and, as he now agreed with Bethany, frankly useless healer from doing anything about it.

So whenever they were alone, Bethany kissed him slowly and thoroughly—standing next to him in the library, in his bed before they went to sleep, sitting in his lap after supper, and when Alistair forgot himself and moved his healing arm to better hold her, Bethany pulled away, a final kiss pressed to his nose or his forehead or his knuckles before she extricated herself and they both fell apart into a hundred frustrated sighs.

Alistair got better at holding still.

He also realized one day that he didn’t have to wait for Bethany to kiss him first. He could, in fact, lean down to slate his mouth over hers if he felt like it. The first time he cradled her jaw and kissed her unprompted, Bethany wondered if she could die of happiness. It had to be better than all the times she thought that if he didn’t touch her, really touch her, she would die of want.

Necking, that’s what she overheard Annie calling it. “Caught them necking again, this time in the alcove next to the throne room.”

“I’ve run into them three times this week, twice by that statue of that hero dog near the kitchens.”

Bethany might have been embarrassed if the women hadn’t burst into kind laughter and given her knowing grins whenever she saw them.

She knew she was being ridiculous. She just didn’t care.

She took her afternoon walks on snow covered ground, careful not to leave any trail of magic, nothing anyone would find. But it felt easier than before, not to show herself. It didn’t feel like she was constantly holding in her breath, waiting for something to happen. She coated the pine needles in frost and burned a little heart into the trunk of a tree. _A + B._ When winter passed, she would ask Alistair if they could travel together, somewhere south, see more of everything.

It was stupid how her heart raced when she found him waiting for her by the door. They spent their mornings together, except when Bethany went to the castle chantry for service, they ate their meals together, they slept next to each other, but every day as she returned from her walk, he smiled and offered his arm, and it was like a jolt of electricity right through her.

She had no right to be so happy. Her sister once told her that the only thing that made nobility bearable was knowing how miserable they all were all the time. Royalty probably even more so. Bethany was breaking that contract every minute of every day. And night. Particularly at night, with Alistair’s mouth on her throat and her hand creeping under his shirt, her legs squeezed together as tight as they would go. Even when sighing with longing as they parted, and when she shoved her head into her pillow, trying to calm her breathing before she did something stupid like climb on top of him and heal his stupid arm. Especially when she woke to find herself all wrapped up in him again. There simply wasn’t room for this much happiness in one body, but she accommodated it somehow, in the space between them.

# ~

Alistair did not miss Eamon. He thought he might have. He saw him every day for years, relied on him, trusted him, but he did not miss him. Barely even thought about him, truth be told. He thought that ruling without him would be harder. He’d been gripped by indecision for so long, he wasn’t certain he knew how to pass judgements or resolve disputes by himself.

But he wasn’t by himself.

With Eamon gone and Bethany by his side, it was Bethany’s words that echoed through his head at times. And not just hers—others as well. Eamon had drowned it all out, drowned _everything_ out, and so often Alistair felt he couldn’t think at all, but now he wanted to. He was trying.

Harder when Bann Ceorlic stood in front of him and listed for all to hear the problems caused by Alistair’s inaction with the Dalish. Clashes with local farmers, missing sheep, apostates run amok. He could clearly imagine Eamon saying, “I told you so.” A barn was burned down, and though no evidence was provided of this, it was blamed on the elves “illegally” residing in Ceorlic’s forest. By his accounting, the southern bann was almost fallen entirely into chaos.

He fell just short of calling Alistair stupid, which was probably good for the Bann’s sake. Bethany was squeezing Alistair’s hand harder by the second, and Alistair had a momentary flash of his future moniker in the history books: Alistair the Flogger.

He tried not to slump during the lengthy overview of his failings. 

But if Eamon would have reminded Alistair how this could have been avoided if he took a stronger stance against the Dalish, Anora might have reminded Ceorlic that the forest belonged to Ferelden, not Ceorlic, and it was by Alistair’s graciousness that he was allowed to manage the area. If Ceorlic found himself unable to rule his lands in a way in keeping with the laws and values of Ferelden’s king, someone else could be found to do it for him. Shianni would tell him that more than just the Dalish had problems with Ceorlic, and hint that if Alistair wanted blackmail, he could have him blackmailed. Even Zevran’s voice came to mind sometimes. “Send me a letter and give me a week, and this man goes away for good.” And Beth would say, “He’s an asshole, Alistair. His criticism belongs in the sewers,” and, “They blame you because it’s easier than taking responsibility for themselves, not because it’s true.” 

The banns were _all_ assholes, as she reminded him regularly, and it was easier to take their criticism, their sighs of disappointment, and disapproving glares when he remembered that.

Still, all of it exhausted him. And Bethany wanted to do this _every_ day. Every day he was supposed to sit on a throne with a stupid crown on his head and listen to people and try to look competent.

“What if we took turns?” he grumbled into his lunch.

“I think that’s a really good idea,” Bethany responded overly quickly.

 _Really?_ He looked up to scrutinize her, but she didn’t seem to be making fun of him. “Really?”

“It’s no secret you hate this, Alistair. I don’t think I hate it as much as you do. I might not hate it at all. It doesn’t tire me out the way it does you.”

He stared at her for a minute, and while he knew what she was saying _could_ be true, he could not understand how. “How?”

Bethany laughed. “I don’t know! I’m not you.”

Understatement of the year. “No, you’re incredible is what you are.”

He tugged on her hand, and she didn’t need more encouragement to slide into his lap and forget about their morning work or the half-eaten lunch in front of them. Kissing Bethany—now there was a job that didn’t exhaust him. He could do this all day, happily, every day. And she—Maker, she was incredible at this, too. At everything, really.

It was overpowering at times, how he felt in her presence, dazzling and confusing. She could hand him a kerchief when he sneezed, and he’d feel off kilter for hours. Like he was living in some world where people were nice to each other just because they could be. Absurd, unrealistic, but he craved it. He craved it like he craved her hand in his hair and her fingers pressing into his skin and his name in her throat. None of it made any sense, but it didn’t have to. Or, well, he could live with it, the not understanding, the confusion.

Bethany was in his arms, and Maker, that was enough.

# ~

Varric’s new book was overly engrossing. Bethany had meant to take it on her walk, but once she had opened the cover, she curled up by the window in Alistair’s room, and it seemed mere minutes later he was returning from the training yards in a sweat-soaked shirt and breeches. While normally this would draw her entire attention, now she simply had to know what happened to the guard-captain next. Varric wouldn’t possibly leave this on a cliffhanger, would he? He wasn’t that dastardly.

“Good book?” Alistair asked.

Bethany simply hummed a response, turning the page.

“Isn’t it too dark in here to read?”

She was squinting in the waning twilight now that she thought about it. Sunset had come and gone. With a wave of her hand, she lit the candles in the room and turned back to her reading. Ten pages left and there was simply no way for all these conflicts to be resolved. She’d be writing Varric a very sternly written letter in a moment.

“Beth.”

“Hm?”

When he didn’t respond, she tore her attention away from the book. Alistair hadn’t moved, still half-dressed, brows knitted together. He looked confused, maybe a little concerned. He was staring at the candles, then slowly brought his troubled gaze to her face.

The candles. She hadn’t even thought—she’d just—she’d—Her gaze skittered around the room, not quite able to focus on anything. “Oh,” she said, getting to her feet, her book falling to the floor. “Oh.” 

She made for the door, head ducked, no plan, just a need to get out. Alistair lunged to block her path.

“Beth—”

“Sorry,” she said, shoving him with force magic. It wasn’t very hard, but it was enough to send him stumbling toward his bed and out of her way. “Sorry,” she said again as she slammed the door behind her and jammed the lock with ice.

Then she ran.

# ~~

A lot of things slid into place when Bethany waved her hands and lit up the room like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her shoving him with magic and freezing his door was really more evidence than he needed to put it all together. 

It made a lot of sense, actually. Sudden cold drafts, permanently warm tea kettles, her hangover cures, that bruise on his side that had just disappeared overnight.

Her fear of templars.

Signs of an apostate in the woods where she walked every day.

Fuck.

Alistair slammed his shoulder into the door, trying to dislodge the blasted ice or just break the thing down. Of course, being his bedroom in a bloody fortress, they’d built the thing out of sturdy wood, or, fuck, iron or something.

He had to find her. For one thing, he was pretty certain she hadn’t had shoes on when she ran. For another, he hadn’t told her that he’d been allowing the templars to keep an eye on the Kingswood after dark when he knew she wouldn’t be there and wouldn’t see them.

 _Fuck_.

Something in the door gave way, and _Maker,_ that hurt, but with a solid kick he was through it and running.

Someone was still in the practice yard for some reason, hitting a dummy in the dark, and Alistair shouted at him, “Give me your weapon, man!”

The guard babbled some confused apology, so Alistair just snatched it from him and continued running. By the heft of it, it was a wooden practice sword to match his breeches and shirt and almost-healed broken arm in the dead of winter: slightly to the left of useless. But if he were lucky, he wouldn’t need to use it. If he were lucky, he was wrong about where Bethany had run to and she was hiding in some corner of the castle or in town, warm in a tavern or with the free mages. If he were lucky, she would not find the templars and they would never find her.

Alistair was not lucky. Streaks of light flashed somewhere ahead of him, blue of a barrier maybe, an awful lot of lightning for someone who feared thunder. It gave him a target to run for, for which he was grateful, silver linings and all that. There was cracking of trees and a clang of metal. His lungs burned and he tripped over a tree branch, which was just what he needed before entering a fight, and each flash of magic sent a bolt of fear through him.

Then the forest went dark, which was much, much worse.

He heard her—a cry not twenty yards away—and corrected his course.

_Bethany._

Her dress was torn, one eye puffy, the skin darkening in a bruise. She was unfocused, unseeing, and Alistair decided the man who was holding her by the hair would be the one to die first.

“Who’s there? _Alistair?_ ” A second templar elbowed the first—Jason, his name was Jason and Alistair _knew_ him—and he corrected himself, “Your majesty.”

“This woman is the apostate we’ve been searching for,” said the second.

“I know,” Alistair replied, grip tightening around his sword, chest heaving as he recovered from his mad dash, “And you can’t have her. You’re dismissed, and I’ll take her from here.”

He knew it wouldn’t work. Even if it did, he’d have to kill them anyway. They had _hurt_ her. They knew what she was and they hurt her for it, and they’d keep trying to hurt her until they were dead.

“Andraste’s tears, you always were a tit. Tell me this, how _stupid_ does a templar king have to be to get himself enthralled by a mage whore?”

No armor, no shield, but he raised his wooden practice sword to ready. The men weren’t wearing their massive helmets—no visibility with those on in the dark—and Jason always favored his left ten years ago at the monastery when Alistair spent his afternoons kicking him around the training yard.

The men made eyes at each other, and Jason released Bethany, who fell to the ground on her hands. Alistair had to force himself to keep his eyes on his opponents; looking at her now could spell death for them both, but when Jason kicked her to the side, his boot connecting with her ribcage and her breath expelling with a sigh, Alistair’s vision began to blur red. He lunged.

“Don’t worry, your majesty, once she’s dead, her spell will release you.”

Like hell.

It was two on one and his sword cracked with the first hit. He almost laughed. No matter, if he spent too much time deflecting the one, the other would just kill him. Luckily for him, these men spent their days standing guard around a chantry in a city with walls. They were little more than plated barrels meant to look useful, and when he parried another blow, Alistair followed it up with a kick that sent Jason staggering. He put his entire arm into connecting his hilt to the man’s temple, and if he was not dead from that blow, he would not be getting up any time soon. He landed with a thud next to Bethany, and Alistair tackled the other templar to the ground.

There was no finesse to this style of fighting. Brute force applied until his opponent dropped his sword, and then it was punches and kicks and blunt trauma wherever would give him the upper hand. And, given the plate of it all, he didn’t have much to work with. But Alistair had one advantage—he had experience taking a few blows here and there without succumbing. And, Maker, he was putting _that_ to the test. After tense, ineffectual struggle, his hand found enough purchase to bash man’s head against the ground.

That seemed to do the trick. Alistair rolled onto his back, panting. At least, nobody got up to cut his head off, so he felt he could safely say he was winning.

Bruises were blooming across his body. A dozen small aches growing into much larger ones were alerting him to their presence, one at a time in an orderly queue. He was absolutely certain his shield arm was less healed than at the start of this debacle, more broken than not, and while he might have gotten the decisive blow, the dead guy might have won for _most_ blows. Probably not much of a consolation prize for that. Alistair was bleeding, and when had one of them even gotten a cut on him? Flesh wound, on his side. Must have been Jason.

After three tries, he got to his feet. Maker, he did not want to try that again for a long while. He liked armor. He looked good in armor. Shiny. Kingly. Impervious.

_Bethany._

She was in a heap, shocked, breaths coming too fast, her hand covering her blackened eye. “It’s over,” he said softly. He leaned down, offering his hand to help her up. She didn’t take it. “Beth. Look at me.”

“There’s—there’s—” Her breaths were coming in gasps and she balled her hands into fists, her gaze focused behind him. “There’s a third,” Bethany croaked out.

Alistair was too slow to understand her meaning. Understood it a bit faster when he took a hit to the shoulder, a downward hack that knocked him back to the ground. Blade struck so deep the templar had to brace himself with a boot to Alistair’s back to yank it out again. On instinct alone, Alistair rolled; he didn’t need to make the killing blow so easy just yet. He’d already be dead if the man had been smart enough to thrust. His vision cleared more or less, and he saw the man limping toward him, one arm hanging uselessly, charred courtesy of Bethany’s earlier efforts, he had to suppose, but Alistair had to face the fact that perhaps he was in worse condition, his blood soaked through his shirt, his left arm entirely unresponsive, and his right hand flexed around nothing—no sword, no weapon at all.

He pushed himself to his feet, somehow, for whatever that was worth, and he didn’t see a lot of options here.

In fact, there was only one.

“Beth. Run.”

Wasn’t quite sure where she was just now. The night was only getting darker around him. He heard movement, so hopefully she listened. Limpy here wouldn’t be able to catch up with her, especially once her magic came back. And he was a bit weak with that sword. Should have cut through to Alistair’s heart with the first swing. Might take him ages to finish hacking him up, and by then Bethany would have head start.

Alistair didn’t even try to defend himself. Pressed a hand to his shoulder for all that was worth. Maker, it was embarrassing to be taken down by a templar. Just the worst. Everything he faced and some tin bucket was going to get the killing blow? Zevran was going to have a field day with this, he could feel it. Never let him live it down.

Ha.

“Are you really going to die for some mage trash, your majesty?” the templar spat. The world was a bit fuzzy, but Alistair recognized that voice from somewhere far away.

He could have said, _She’s your Queen, and if you were doing your duty, you would die for her, too_. He could have said, _She’s my wife, and she’s the best person I know. I have never met someone more worthy of laying down my life for._ He could have said, _Taking her to be locked up would be the same as killing me anyway. I don’t want to see a world without her in it. So have at me._

He said, “Happily.”

He didn’t get the chance, though. The templar hadn’t even raised his sword when Alistair heard the scraping of metal, a gurgle from the man—Bevan, that was his name, a real prick who used to knock Alistair’s supper to the floor every time he got the chance—and he keeled over. Behind him, Bethany was holding a very bloody sword, and she struck once again—at the man’s throat—before dropping it.

“And you said you weren’t good in a fight,” Alistair mumbled before the ground slipped out from under him and the world went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To sum up the violence, Alistair got massively injured, very heroically, but he did succeed in offing the templars before giving up on that whole "being upright" thing. Bethany is fine, if smited. Smote? I mean we all know she's smitten, but is now the time for such a horrible joke? 
> 
> And a big thanks to Hawke, for that incredible summary. 
> 
> As a side note, "Save a Cowboy" now has 3 chapters of extra/side content, so if you are craving more TEOS and you haven't read them yet, there you have it. And, because I love this fic so much, and because we are nearing the end here, if you have more requests for side content, I might indulge ;)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter begins with a lot of mentions of blood. It's not gory, but the word blood gets used a lot in the first ~1k words
> 
> CW: This chapter contains an M-rated sex scene between ~ one and two
> 
> If both of these topics bother you, everything after the last ~ should be safe.

Alistair staggered and fell, and Bethany lurched through the mud to him. Blood soaked his shirt, soaked his everything, and she pressed her hands to him, searching for the injury.

“Beth,” he groaned.

“I’m here.” Her voice was wretched, cracked. Her fingers found the gash rending his shoulder, hard to miss, really, deep, too deep, his muscle exposed to the winter air. She’d been too stupid, too useless to help him. “I’m here.”

She needed to heal him, but she pulled at her magic and nothing came out. She pulled and pulled and nothing was coming.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, “’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t—” Her hands trembled with it, the effort, her whole body straining toward the one thing that had always come easily, the very thing that had caused this, leaking from her effortlessly all those years until now when there was _nothing._ “Please,” she whispered, “Please.”

Alistair’s hand dropped from her cheek to rest motionless on his chest.

“Ali,” she begged, “Please.”

He didn’t answer. More silence that pressed on her, coiling around her. She couldn’t even hear insects or animals in the woods around them, just her own staggered breaths as she futilely flexed her fingers and stretched for something that was not there anymore. The silence was killing him, she was killing him, he was _dying_ , he was—

She felt it. The Fade. A tiny hole in the vast muffled nothing, and she _pulled_. It wasn’t much, but it was everything. Everything she had left in her to draw the magic from the other side, each tiny wisp of light leaving her panting for breath, sweat beading on her forehead, muscles cramping with it. And it was enough to stop Alistair from bleeding to death in front of her and that was everything, too.

She pulled until she was empty, his whole body shining blue and bright until it hurt her eyes, and she kept pulling when she should have stopped, when her vision blurred and her lungs burned, and it hurt. She heard Alistair start coughing, felt him moving under her hands, and that was good, because dead people didn’t move generally.

She only stopped pulling because she couldn’t anymore, really couldn’t, and she laid her head on his chest, rising and falling and a heartbeat, too, steady, strong, familiar, and she closed her eyes.

~

It was difficult not to wake her. What Alistair most wanted to do was cup her cheek and kiss her forehead, twenty, maybe thirty times. He was driven to distraction by the thought, watching sleep in her bed, her hair a tangled mess on the pillow. But she needed sleep, and he couldn’t risk it.

The really tricky part had been getting her through the castle without anyone seeing them. Bethany, out cold, and both of them covered in blood—could it _all_ be his blood?— would have raised questions he had no answers for. Luckily, outside the kennels he ran into Liam, and the kennel-boy was very excited to help the King and Queen on their mission of getting through the halls unnoticed. He acted as scout and distraction, and Alistair was certain they were only seen from a distance. Then he’d remembered his broken door, and he locked them in Bethany’s room.

That had been hours ago. Alistair had cleaned himself up, thrown his bloody, tattered shirt in fireplace, and collapsed onto the bed next to her. He had wanted to go deal with the corpses, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her for a minute. Couldn’t stomach the idea of her waking up alone. The templars could wait and rot as Bethany rested.

Finding out she was a mage felt like something settling right behind Alistair’s heart. It should have angered him, probably, for the lie. The danger she had been in this whole time and hadn’t told him about. In all probability, she used him.

But he wasn’t angry. Wasn’t even annoyed.

Oh, things would have a lot easier if she’d said it using words and then didn’t run away after. A lot less bloody.

But mostly he just loved her. Simple as that. There was a piece missing, and he had it now, and he loved it with the rest of her.

When morning hit, he sent a servant to the library to get him a copy of the Nevarran Accord and anything regarding the Exalted Marches. After a minute he grabbed another servant to ask for a number of books regarding Ferelden law and the Chantry. The poor courier could barely walk under the weight of the enormous tomes, and Alistair took over Bethany’s desk. Three templars dead and a mage on the throne, and Alistair might need to rewrite a law or two, but Maker, he had to make sure it was the right one in just the right way.

Thankfully, Bethany woke up, and he could leave the heavy reading for later.

“You’re alive,” she breathed when her eyes landed on him.

Alistair almost laughed. He could have said the same to her, and the relief at seeing her awake sent words skittering right out of his mouth. “Not sure I could get much more alive than this. You healed me so thoroughly I don’t have a single bruise, which made all the blood rather confusing. I think you also fixed a five-year-old injury to my knee that always ached. And the partial deafness in my left ear. Everything seems really loud from the left right now.”

Bethany blinked. “You were partially deaf?”

“I did tell you about the explosions back in the Roads.”

“Right,” she said faintly.

Alistair started rummaging under all his papers and things. “I have some lyrium here, if you need it. Took it off the… well. So you can heal yourself. Your eye and… he kicked you pretty hard.” Any time would be a good time for Alistair to shut up. He didn’t, though. “I can also send for tea or food. Or both. Or neither.”

Seeing her with that black eye was just too much. Puffy and bruised and a mark of wanton cruelty, and if the templar that did it weren’t already dead, he’d have to leave this room to go kill him again.

Bethany took the lyrium from him but didn’t drink it. “There’s blood in your hair.”

He ran his hand through it before realizing what a terrible idea that was. He wiped it off on his breeches. “Sorry, I tried to wash up.” He had decided not to undress Bethany while she was sleeping, and still wasn’t sure if that was the right decision. She looked very stunned, and he didn’t think he was helping at all. Maybe less blood everywhere would have been the right way to go. “There’s… you might want to change your clothes as soon as you can.”

She looked down at the blood covering her sleeves and spattered across her chest. Mud, too, the fabric torn here and there. But mostly the blood was what she was looking at probably. “All mine. I think,” Alistair said helpfully. 

Maker, he would feel better if she said something. He liked it when she spoke. Her voice and the words that she said, generally.

She brought her eyes up from her lap. “Can I see?” she asked.

He didn’t understand at first, but Bethany reached a tentative hand to his formerly rent shoulder, and he nodded, sitting next to her on the bed. Her magic washed over him, light and cool, dripping down his body like water. She placed her hands on his waist, the muscles of his belly flexing in response to this strange and quiet examination, and he resisted the urge to bodily pull her into his arms.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked, “Not a scratch on me.”

Her hands twisted in his shirt and she gave him the tiniest tug forward. He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers softly, too afraid to hurt her, all bruised and quiet, even if what he really wanted was hold her against his chest for the rest of time.

She broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, tears on her cheeks. Alistair caught one with the pad of his thumb, and she leaned into his hand.

“I’m going to miss this,” she sniffled.

A stab of panic hit him in the chest. “Are you going somewhere?”

She blinked at him, her mouth moving, but no words coming out. Alistair felt his entire body tense, like he was gearing up to fight again, but he didn’t know why. Her gaze dropped to her lap. “Aren’t you going to… you’re not going to send me away? The Circle?”

He blew out all the air in his lungs. “I think I’ve made it pretty clear what happens to anyone who tries to make you go anywhere you don’t want to go.” Fat tears fell from her eyes now, splattering her ruined dress. Alistair handed her a kerchief, pressing it into her hand. “You’ll stay right here, Beth. As long as you’ll have me. They can launch an Exalted March on Denerim if they want, but they’ll never have you.”

One of her hands curled around his. “They won’t. March, I mean. We’ll go out there again, tonight, and burn the bodies. Chantry doesn’t care enough about templars to mount a search party for five missing ones. At least, they never have before.”

“Five?” Alistair asked. Now that he thought about it, there _had_ been a lot of noise and flashing before he found her. Stood to reason she’d gotten a couple shots in before he arrived. “You killed _three_ templars on your own? With no staff? Maker.”

“I think you helped with the last one. Not that I ever want you to help like that again.”

“Wait, what did you mean by _before?”_ he asked a bit belatedly, “How many missing templars are you responsible for?”

She bit her lip, a perfect picture of guilt, and Alistair began to laugh. “Bethany Hawke, who learned to fight alongside her siblings after all. You didn’t pick up a sword for the first time last night. Maker’s breath, here I thought you were some little scaredy cat who struck a lucky blow.”

Bethany laughed, finally, for the first time that morning, and then groaned, her hand to her side.

“Please heal yourself,” Alistair urged her, “Maker, you could have killed yourself the way you healed me last night. Won’t you please just… do a little for yourself?”

She slipped off the bed and stripped down to her shift, tossing her ruined dress in the hearth and igniting it without even a gesture or a glance behind her. That would take Alistair a day or two to get used to, but he was willing. Her hand glowed a familiar shade of blue, and when she was done, her eye was less puffy, less dark, but the remnants of a bruise remained. It would have to be good enough, he supposed, to let nature heal the rest of it. As if reading his thoughts, she said, “It was really difficult not to heal you when you fell off your horse. I’ve never had to wait for nature to take its course like that for more than little bruises and scrapes.”

He took her hand. “You did, though, didn’t you? Heal me. My rib. It was broken, I was sure of it.”

Bethany smiled at the floor. “Would have healed the arm if everyone hadn’t already seen it.”

“I think I might have noticed that.” Bethany cocked an eyebrow at him. Right then. “How would you have tricked me?”

“Simple. I would have distracted you. Like this.” She tilted her head up to kiss him, and he obliged. No gentle kiss of this morning, Bethany was all tongue in his mouth and teeth down his throat and he had to concede it would have worked. Kiss him like this, and he would have accepted anything she told him.

“You don’t have to keep still anymore,” she murmured in his ear.

Right. Right, his arm wasn’t broken, and he could let his hands roam, respectfully. Her back, her hair, her shoulders, all very respectful places for his hands to explore. A bit lower, no, too low, her hips, that was fine, good, _Maker_ , they were _very_ good hips, and they felt very good as she pressed them against him. Felt even better when she hitched a leg over his hip, and his hand instinctively grabbed her to hold her there, pull her closer, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh through her skirts, and Maker, that wasn’t respectful at all, but neither was the small rolling motion she made with her hips. Indecent, really, and he desperately wanted her to do it again. 

Like a bucket of ice over his head, Alistair realized his arm was no longer broken, not a single part of him was injured or healing or needed care, and if Bethany wanted to, and by the way she was taking his shirt off of him and tossing it in the corner, she seemed to want to, there was nothing to stop them from… well, from… from taking more clothes off and seeing where that led.

He swallowed.

Bethany was only in a shift. Wouldn’t take much to get it off of her. A tie about the sort of chest area where her… well there was that tie, a bow, just had to tug at it, really, and then, he supposed, lifting the thing off of her, not unlike she had just lifted his shirt off of him. That would be the process, if he were planning to undress her. A tug and a lift. Easy as anything.

He was just standing and staring at her now, like an idiot. Well, more specifically, staring at the little bow that gathered her shift at the top, as if glaring at it would somehow make this easier.

And he supposed it worked, because Bethany followed his gaze and untied it herself before pulling the thing over her head.

For once in his life, Alistair’s head fell blessedly silent. He stared at the woman before him, and only one word floated across mind: _beautiful._

When she pressed herself to him again, her lips on his skin and the rest of their clothing quickly and fumblingly discarded as she guided him to her bed, another word came to mind: _want._

That word in the past had brought nothing but pain. To want was to be denied, disappointed, to be made a fool of. Better to bury it all and forget it, expect nothing, pursue nothing,

But Bethany ended all that, overpowered every instinct he’d built up over years, and Alistair wanted. He craved and desired and it scared him silly and with a rush his mind was loud again with all of it.

“What’s wrong?” Bethany breathed as his thick, useless hands stilled.

“I…” She was in front of him, naked and in front of him and asking him to touch her, and he was a fool. “I’m going to mess this up. Maker, I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” she assured him, but even this, just killing the moment stone dead like this, he was already finding ways to… well. To mess it up. “If you start to mess it up, I’ll tell you and we’ll change it, and we’ll fix it.”

Why did her kindness always hurt a little? Like a thorn pressing in on his heart. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He wanted to believe her, and there was that word again. Want. Bethany got on the bed, looking over her shoulder to smile at him, and it was simultaneously the most enticing and intimidating sight Alistair had ever seen. _You fought an Archdemon, man_ , he reminded himself, but he didn’t really want to be thinking about _that_ just now. Incongruent and wrong and he was stalling.

The self-doubt felt like a barrier between him and Bethany, repelling him from the place he would most like to be. Luckily, Alistair had a secret. He’d been reading Zevran’s book. He had to wait every day for Bethany to leave on her afternoon walks, and then he opened it, shut it again immediately, opened it to a new page, eyes averted, took a deep breath, scanned it, tried to read or… study whatever diagram was on the page, slammed it shut again, thought about that for an entire age, and started the process over.

He had learned things.

And as much as he would never, ever admit this to Zevran, he was grateful for it in this moment with Bethany bared on her bed, waiting for him to join her.

He would have liked to have said that with her reassurances, he shucked his self-doubt as easily as Bethany had shucked his trousers, but that would have been a lie. Tackling a templar unarmored and bare-handed? Simple. Facing very certain death just the night before? Easy. Climbing onto a bed with his wife with the intention of making love to her? A herculean effort. What did he know about love, other than he carried Bethany in his ribcage, each breath that expanded his lungs further embedding her there until she was written on his bones. Every touch felt like he was allowing him to have something he wasn’t meant to have. Every jolt of pleasure felt stolen and forbidden. His only penance for the audacity of it all would be to make sure she bloody well enjoyed it.

Page fourteen had some ideas that seemed basic enough, and with Bethany’s encouragement, loud, enthusiastic encouragement that had his blood pounding insistently somewhere about the groin region, Alistair watched her come undone in his hands, and Maker, that was a sight he would never tire of seeing. Her body, taut, arching, a sheen of sweat on her in the morning sun that made her glisten, his fingers inside of her.

It did settle his nerves, the roaring in his ears overcome by her sighs and moans and _please, Ali, please._ This brief moment of success might make up for whatever came next, and he held it delicately between them as Bethany breathed and blinked and recovered. Then with little more than half a smile, she was on him, hands and legs and her _mouth,_ and he was on her. In her, after the second try, every muscle in his body too tense with it. She _whimpered_ , and Alistair almost fled the field. “Am I hurting you?”

“ _No,_ ” was the emphatic reply, her legs locking around him, pulling him closer, deeper. 

Well, then, he thought, hesitation brittling and cracking along the edges as everything felt bright and hazy. Nothing for it but to plunge on and trust her heady gasps and how she rolled her hips to meet him. Her fingers pressing into his back, clinging, really, and Alistair gave in. His body became a vessel of want, pulsing with it, a heartbeat in his ears of “Beth, Beth, Beth.”

She came again, taut and trembling and _loud_ with it, and somewhere far away he felt he had been warned it would be trickier than this, to have her enjoy it, but mostly it was thick and gripping relief that hit him so hard that he followed right after, no time or wherewithal to second guess himself and pull away at the last moment. And he might not have been able to pull away anyway, the way she had her arms wrapped around him, like she anticipated his retreat. Like she couldn’t bear an inch of space between them.

And he was… well, it happened and it was over, and Bethany was still here and she… And Alistair felt good, but in the way sore muscles felt good when they were prodded and Alistair _always_ prodded them.

Thankfully, Bethany spoke. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages.”

And Alistair laughed against her neck, because he hadn’t, he really, really hadn’t, but now that they had, he did. Want it. Pages seven and twenty sprung to mind, but it was fifteen he was going to try first the moment he felt like moving ever again.

“You should have let me know,” he lied, following it up with the truth, “I’ll do anything you want.”

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked with a grin, seeing straight through him. And Alistair had no answer to a question as ridiculous as that, so he kissed her, and he found that his limbs were still capable of movement after all, so he put them to use and shuffled out of her grasp.

“Where are you…? Oh,” she sighed, when he settled himself at the apex of her thighs, slinging a leg over each shoulder. “Oh.”

 _That’s a good start,_ he thought with a kiss to the delicate skin of her inner thigh, _but I bet she can go louder._

~

Eventually they had to eat. Alistair put enough clothes on not to scandalize the servant he called. Anything from the kitchens would do, but they needed a lot of it. And tea. Fast.

Bethany stretched on the bed like a cat, not quite under the sheet, not quite over it, not bothering to fix it. Two months of frustration very thoroughly alleviated. And Alistair, who started the whole thing looking scared out of his wits to the point that Bethany worried she’d break him if he accidentally enjoyed himself, now looked intolerably smug, grinning from ear to ear.

Well, she supposed he had reason to. She was screaming his name for a bit there. A few times. She was a bit hoarse, actually. Could really use that tea.

A knock at the door did not result in food, however, but Anora’s voice when Alistair opened it a sliver.

“What happened to your door?” she demanded.

Bethany hadn’t seen it, but given how thoroughly she had jammed it, she could guess.

Alistair smiled. “I tripped.”

Bethany shoved her face in a pillow to stifle her giggles.

“You tripped,” came Anora’s reply. 

Alistair put on his best idiot face, a small wink at Bethany. “I was trying to get my trousers on, if you must know. Lost my balance, pants around my ankles, slammed right into it. Hurt, too,” he whined, “I think I have a bruise from it.” He rubbed his shoulder for good measure.

“It looks like someone put a boot through it.”

“Right, well that’s why getting the trousers on was so hard. Still had my boots on.”

Anora narrowed her eyes at him, but whether it was disbelief or utter scorn for his buffoonery, Bethany couldn’t say.

She exhaled through her nose. “There was another matter of some concern. You canceled all your meetings today, saying the Queen was under the weather, and I’ve just heard someone saw you carrying her through the halls last night.”

Alistair sighed while Bethany scurried to hide herself. He opened the door further so Anora could see the bed behind him. Bethany, covers pulled up to her neck, waved.

“As you can see, my wife has been laid up in bed all day, and I’ve been attending to her.” Anora rolled her eyes at his glib and _obvious_ tone, but Alistair continued, slowly, clearly with no idea where his mouth was going next, “As for last night—”

“I fainted,” Bethany cut in, “Forgot to eat dinner, overexerted myself, stood up too fast in the kennels, and fainted. So embarrassing. I hit my head on the way down.” She pointed at the yellowing bruise over her eye. “I was lucky Alistair found me and took care of me.”

If Bethany wasn’t mistaken, Anora’s eye began to twitch. “In that case,” she said rather delicately, “I think I should cancel all of your plans for at least a week. Bethany needs to recover, and Alistair, you yourself are still recovering from an injury, and it seems you are doing a good job of taking care of her. I will leave you.” Getting those last words out seemed to physical pain her. Anora curtseyed and started to leave.

“If you run into a servant out there, could you call bath for us?” Alistair asked to her retreating back.

If she registered what he said, she made no indication of it. Alistair locked the door behind her.

“You’re awful,” Bethany said, throwing a pillow at him. But she was happy when a bath was prepared—they’d brought out the enormous one she had to imagine was crafted just for Alistair—and she settled with a satisfied sigh with her back against his chest. The sun was going down, and soon they’d have to go clean up the mess she made the night before. It all felt a lifetime away, something that happened to someone else, but also, dreadfully, it didn’t.

“I thought I lost you, yesterday,” she said. His grip on her tightened, then relaxed. 

“You nearly tore a hole in the Veil to get me back. I _am_ grateful.” He rested his chin over her shoulder, his exhaled breath puffing down her chest. “And afterward you thought I would still send you away.”

“I always thought it would be easier, for my family, if I was in the Circle.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?” he asked.

“No.”

Alistair wrapped his big arms around her, holding her tightly to his chest. “If I have to rewrite Fereldan law to keep you here, I will. But I don’t think I do, actually.”

The steam was making her a little dizzy. “Oh?”

“I’m allowed to have a mage in court, just as I’m allowed to have a healer for the castle. The only stipulation is there should generally be some templars about.”

Bethany stiffened, even as she tried not to.

“But, as I’m sure you heard last night, _I’m_ a templar. That’s where Eamon sent me. Trained for it, but didn’t take the vows in the end. I can silence mages and bore you to death with the Chant if you like. And I have no problem dedicating my life to guarding you from danger. That is a vow I will happily take. Have taken, actually. So I think we’re set on that.”

“I think you’re meant to be guarding other people _from_ me,” Bethany muttered. It couldn’t be that simple.

“Then if we can swing it, it’s best if no one else finds out that I misunderstood that part.” Bethany smiled in spite of herself. “Do you think… can you live with a templar?”

She turned to press her forehead to his. “Maker, Alistair, I don’t know how I’d live without you.” She had no desire to find out. Ever. “If I told you I loved you, would you sit here in the bath with me, or would go dump yourself in the harbor and make me fish you out?”

“I, uh…” Alistair swallowed, and Bethany let him take his time. He hadn’t abandoned the tub yet, nor let go of her, so that was a good sign. “I think I’d tell you that I love you, as well. A _lot.”_

“Oh a _lot,_ is it?”

“A _lot_ a lot,” he replied.

“Alistair, I love you.”

He swallowed again, squeezing her a little tighter. “And I love you.”

There were unknowns—whether the Chantry would care about a missing contingent of templars for the first time ever, or if anyone else would discover Bethany’s magic, if Alistair’s reading of the laws was accurate in the slightest—but for now they had each other, no secrets between them, and it was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anora, holding her tongue: do it for your future nephews and nieces, just hold out for the nephews and nieces...


	18. Chapter 18

Darrian fussed with his collar. It felt stupid to wear his dress uniform just to see Alistair. The man had seen him naked, for Andraste’s sake. Literally for her sake, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, all cold and jittery. Alistair never stood on ceremony, and given that he could hardly stand to _look_ at Darrian, the whole thing felt pretty pointless.

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” he asked Zevran, who got to wear whatever clothes he wanted and had chosen something with perfectly garish colors that clashed hideously with Darrian’s Warden blues.

“Because we were invited, and because you wanted to make sure the Queen wasn’t a sneaky trickster out to destroy Alistair and the country.”

Darrian _had_ put a lot of work into protecting this country. And Alistair for that matter. It wouldn’t do to see it all undone by some unknown woman from Kirkwall.

Alistair and Bethany (and what kind of name was Bethany, anyway?) were waiting together just inside the castle. They were arguing from the looks of it. No, not arguing. _Teasing._ Alistair pointed at her, and she swatted his finger away, and he _laughed._ Alistair hadn’t laughed in four years. Not since… not since Darrian had ruined his life.

He stopped laughing when he spotted Darrian, and, well, that felt more normal. Or what had become normal for them, anyway. There had been plenty of laughter before that whole king thing. Zevran gave Darrian a shove forward, and now he was being introduced to the Queen, who had, as Zevran promised, a very lovely smile.

“It’s so nice to meet you. Alistair has… well he hasn’t told me a _lot_ about you, but he has told me some things about you, and either way, you’re the Hero of Ferelden and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Her enthusiasm seemed sincere, at least. He could see how Alistair might have been taken in with those big, guileless, brown eyes, not unlike his own. He pressed a careful kiss to her outstretched hand. Calluses, there, old ones. From a staff. She was a mage.

“Yes, I’m familiar with Alistair’s description capabilities.” Alistair snorted, which only propelled Darrian on. “For instance, when telling me about you in the first letter I’ve received from him in years, he said he liked your teeth.”

Bethany turned to Alistair. “You like my teeth?”

Alistair, to his credit, didn’t back down. “I do. They’re nice. White and regular.”

Bethany made a little cooing sound, and to Darrians’ horror, they began snogging right there in the hall. He turned to Zevran, who was politely covering his mouth while he shook with laughter. Maker, did she actually like him? And was Alistair… happy? He never thought he’d see the day.

When they were quite done, Alistair started leading them through the castle. “We’re going to have a party tonight for you,” he was saying, “A ball.”

“You hate balls,” Darrian accused.

“Alistair loves balls,” Bethany replied.

Zevran, at this point, was rendered entirely speechless by the situation. He bowed out, waving for Darrian to go on without him while he caught his breath. Darrian persisted. “Since when does Alistair love balls?”

“He’s been teaching me to dance,” Bethany said.

Alistair grinned. “Turns out parties are fun when they aren’t attended by people who spend their mornings berating me. Who would have known?” He stopped in the hall. “Here you are. You and Zev can have this room. Where _is_ Zev?”

“Here,” he said, stepping out from a corner, his mirth firmly under control. Calm, collected, and liable to crack if one more person said the word ‘ball’ again. Unfortunately, Bethany said goodbye, something to attend to elsewhere, and Darrian found his arms crossed over his chest again as her hand lingered on Alistair’s, dropping it only when she was out of reach. Too sweet, really. Had to be an act.

Alistair raised an eyebrow at Darrian. “Don’t tell me you don’t like her,” he said, his voice going sour for the first time that morning.

“It would be my right. _You_ didn’t like Zevran when you first met him.”

“Neither did you. He had hired a dozen people to kill us! He _would_ have killed us, if we weren’t better.”

“I think it was closer to twenty,” Zevran said.

“Not helping, love.”

“Finding an apostate on short notice like that was _not_ easy.”

“Zev.”

“Right.”

Darrian sized up Alistair for a minute. “Still got those templar skills?”

“Why?” Now there was a distinct growl to the man’s voice. He knew. Alistair knew his wife was a mage, so at least there was that. And if Darrian said another word on it, Alistair was going to punch him. Or, well, he was going to try.

“Oh, nothing. Might need help clearing out a ghost at the Vigil is all,” he lied. A distinctly cold aura settled over them, and Zevran heaved a sigh.

They settled into a tense silence as Darrian tried to think of something, _anything,_ that wouldn’t tick Alistair off. Zevran was already glaring daggers at him. First time invited to Denerim in _ages_ and he just couldn’t stop picking at Alistair like an almost-healed scab.

“Bethany is holding court just now, if you want to attend,” Alistair said to the floor, “Or if you are both tired from the enormously short journey from Amaranthine, I’ll leave you here.” 

“You aren’t going to join her? Hold court?” Darrian asked.

“I could, but mostly I’m there to sit and look pretty, and she can better admire me if I’m in the crowd with you.”

Bethany held court tolerably well, and, as Alistair promised, she did spend a lot of time making eyes at him. Darrian was pleased to see Shianni in a place of honor, and Shianni was pleased to hug Darrian so hard he felt a rib popping somewhere. The morning was mostly the same sorts of things he faced at Vigil’s Keep: nobles trying to trick her into toppling their rivals, peasants seeking retribution, the Chantry begging for yet more influence over everyone and everything. To her credit, she didn’t slowly collapse under it all or start stabbing, as he generally fantasized when he entertained these things. In fact, by the end of placating everyone in the room and promising, really, to do nothing, Bethany seemed completely unperturbed and happily took Alistair’s arm to go to lunch. And Alistair, saved the horrors of having people ask him to fix their problems, seemed completely fine. Chipper, even.

Well, it seemed to work for them, at least.

Darrian hung back to confirm with Shianni that Bethany really probably wasn’t a despot in the making, waiting to topple Alistair at her nearest convenience, and that actually, they were disgustingly happy with each other all the time.

“I wouldn’t poke at this one, Darrian. Let them be happy. There’s nothing to fix here.”

“I just want to make sure it’s actual happiness and not… him getting the rug pulled out again.”

“The only one pulling rugs is you. Leave it.”

Shianni left, and Darrian had half a mind to pull the actual rug she was standing on. “Satisfied?” Zevran asked him.

He supposed with Zevran, Shianni, and Alistair himself all saying that Bethany was good and loving and not a secretly malicious trickster apostate set to usurp the throne, he’d let it all rest for now. In which case… Alistair was truly happy. And Darrian wasn’t really needed for anything.

He loitered.

He found himself outside the kitchens, staring at a statue of Knives, his mabari. And he knew it was Knives, because someone had helpfully inscribed “Knives” on it. An odd place for a statue, but he supposed even a metal mabari preferred the smell of food around. Maybe he’d get Zev to help him steal it later and bring it back to the Vigil.

Maids bustled past, and Darrian raised an eyebrow at hearing their conversation.

“There will be a little one by the harvest, you mark me.”

“With him as the father, I wouldn’t count on it being so little!”

The women burst into laughter, exiting behind a door, and Darrian found Zevran. “Did you hear that?”

“What do you expect? Maids will always talk.”

Maids talked because maids knew. They might be the first to know of something like _that,_ other than the Queen herself. “Do you think she is already?” he asked, “I mean, she does have rather large—” Darrian gestured toward his chest area.

“No.” Zevran shook his head. “They’ve always looked like that. Or at least, the same as when I was here last.”

Darrian blew all of the air out of his chest. Alistair with a baby. Alistair as a _father._ “You know I think he might be good at it.”

“I think you’re right.”

Darrian spent the rest of the day thinking about Alistair with a baby. It hadn’t really occurred to him that… well that that sort of thing could be happening around here. Carrying a baby around would finally put his big arms to good use. Bethany might as well have two while she was at it. And there Bethany was, leaning on his big arm and seemingly perfectly comfortable there, and there Alistair was, dressed up for the ball, crown on his head and looking… well smug as shit, really. Darrian had a wager how he’d spent the afternoon to be looking _that_ pleased with himself.

So the Queen held court, and the King served the Queen, and maybe that was the best it could be for them. He nudged Zevran, who had changed his clothes for something in even brighter colors. “Zev. They’re in love.”

“I know.” He handed Darrian a drink. “It’s vile.”

“Liar.”

He had half a mind to drag Zevran into his lap, but that was something best done when everyone else in the room was a lot drunker and less interested at glaring at elves.

“The last time I was at a ball here,” Zevran said with a pointed look at Alistair, “Neither of their royal majesties attended. It was very rude.”

“My arm was broken,” Alistair whined.

“And why was that again, your majesty?” Darrian asked, “We heard in Amaranthine you forgot how to ride a horse.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “I was hungover and Beth had—” he stopped himself, but it was too late.

“What _had_ her majesty done?” Darrian asked.

“Oh, this should be good.”

“I wasn’t even there,” Bethany protested.

“You _weren’t_ there, but earlier that morning you had… Maker.” Alistair put a hand in his hair, realized his crown was settled there, and quickly removed it. “You told me you _liked_ me. A lot. What else was I supposed to be thinking of? Certainly not the horse.”

Bethany looked absolutely betrayed and crestfallen to think she had caused that debacle, but Darrian roared with laughter.

“If only the Archdemon had known that the only thing required to defeat that last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden was for a pretty girl to smile at Alistair. We would have been toast. Thank goodness Morrigan hated you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Alistair grumbled, “I hate to think what it would have been like if she’d _liked_ me.”

“Come on, Bethany,” Zevran said, getting on his feet, “Come show me how Alistair has taught you to dance.”

“So,” Alistair said, after they’d left, his eyes carefully aimed in front of him, “Still dislike her?”

Darrian clapped a hand on his back. “No. Never did dislike her. I just had to be sure. But now I think I’m really glad Eamon found you a wife smart enough to look around at this place and kick him out of the castle not one month later.”

“He wasn’t that… Kicking him out wasn’t…” Alistair gave up, shaking his head. “It really is better without him. Teagan has already written three times to beg me to take him back.” Alistair paused for a second, drink half raised to his mouth. “Isolde wrote five times.”

Darrian cackled, and eventually Alistair joined him.

“She is great, though, isn’t she?” Alistair asked.

Darrian watched her step on Zevran’s foot and replied, “She’s perfect.”

They drank in silence for a bit, but a comfortable silence that was worlds away from the icy quiet that paved the road to Amaranthine. Darrian nudged Alistair, who nudged him back a little harder, spilling his drink just a touch, so he shoved him back all shoulders, except that Alistair was a solid wall of muscle, and Darrian just ended spilling his drink all over the floor while Alistair grinned.

“Come on,” he said, while Darrian set his tankard on the table in disgust, “Dance with me.”

“What?”

“You’re about the same size as Beth. It should work. Dance with me.”

“You think everyone who isn’t enormous is the same size as Beth, don’t you? Do you even know how to lead?”

Alistair laughed, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. Eyes in the hall landed on them, grins everywhere and others found themselves joining their King, even if they didn’t know why. Alistair wiped a tear from his face before extending a hand to Darrian. “Follow me for once and find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that by nature, fanfic is self-indulgent, but this fic, and especially this last chapter, has been a perfect work of self-indulgence on my part, and I'm glad you all came along for the ride. 
> 
> And now that I've finished this fic that managed to consume my entire brain, I have no idea what I'll do with myself. 
> 
> Find me as nug-juggler on tumblr!
> 
> I wanted to add a note that I was too sad on finishing to say last night: the response to this fic has been so, so wonderful. Yall have been incredible. I loved writing this story, but having so many of you write me such wonderful comments was absolutely energizing. On rough days when I couldn't leave the house, connecting with people across the world over a love for this fictional couple (and rare pair!!) meant so much to me. Thank you all so much.


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